FRANCES 

NEWTON 

SYMMES 

ALLEN 


THE  INVADERS 


GENEALOGY 

OF  THE 

Noble  Families  of 
America 


Published  by 

BARKER  BROTHERS 

220  Milk  Street 
BOSTON,  MASS.,  U.  S.  A. 

March  17, 1895 


'LEX'S  MAKE  IT  A  HOLIDAY!"     (page  369.) 


The  Invaders 

By 

Frances  Newton  Symmes  Allen 


9 


Boston  and  New  York 
Houghton  Mifflin  Company 

&be  ftilierjiiDr  prcsg  CambriDge 
1913 


COPYRIGHT,    1913,   BY   FRANCES  NEWTON   SYMMES  ALLEN 
ALL  RIGHTS   RESERVED 

Published  March  79/5 


TO 
KATHARINE  OBEB  BAYLEY 


2134098 


CONTENTS 

I.   COLORS  IN  THE  MISTS 3 

II.  Two  HEROINES  vis-A-vis     ....  13 

III.  MATCH  TO  WICK      ......  24 

IV.  THE  CURL  ON  THE  LIPS  OF  HER       .        .  36 

V.    SWEETHEARTING 46 

VI.  ICING 64 

VII.  TAPS 78 

VIII.  Ho!  FOR  THE  FERRY  !         ....        91 

IX.  CROP  ROTATION 103 

X.  BEES  AND  ROSES 118 

XI.  THE  MAGIC  OF  THE  MOON      ....  129 
XII.  NITROGEN  NODULES 143 

XIII.  THAT  PEDDLER 160 

XIV.  THEN  STEFAN  PLAYED         ....       173 
XV.  THE  ECHOES 190 

XVI.  COLD-FRAMES 201 

XVII.  HOT-BEDS .220 

XVIII.  CEBULA 231 

XIX.  FURROWS  .        .        .       .        .       .       .        .236 

vii 


CONTENTS 

XX.  LE  BEAU  VELLING 250 

XXI.  THE  MEETING  OF  THE  WATERS    .        .  .  256 

XXII.   THE  BLUE  OF  THE  GENTIAN    .        .        .  273 

XXIII.  HONEY  FOR  MADEMOISELLE  PRUNELLE  .  288 

XXIV.  "ME  HEART  SENT  ME  FLYIN'"       .        .  304 
XXV.  "  To  —  TO  SHE  WHO  iss  MY  Music  ! "  .  .  320 

XXVI.  TAKING  THE  CHANCE        ....  332 

XXVII.  CALENDAR-DAY      .        .        .        .        .  .  345 

XXVIII.  "  LET  's  MAKE  IT  A  HOLIDAY  ! "  364 


THE  INVADERS 


THE  INVADEES 

CHAPTEK  I 

COLORS   IN   THE   MISTS 

-LHE  mists  that  hid  Sugarloaf  and  made  a 
mountain  of  Toby  brought  the  children's  voices 
quite  clearly  to  the  two  men  waiting  under  the 
rock  maple  by  the  cemetery  gate.  The  one, 
gray-faced  and  gray-haired,  in  army  cape  and 
veteran's  hat,  sat  on  a  flat,  lichened  tombstone, 
his  very  blue  eyes  traveling  from  one  soldier's 
grave  to  the  other.  His  companion,  young  and 
ruddy  and  well-knit,  in  white  sweater  and  golf 
trousers,  leaned  on  the  stone  wall,  his  bare  head 
crinkled  with  abundant  tawny  hair.  He  was 
looking  away,  frowning  at  the  vast  levels  of  the 
onion  fields  faintly  green  with  the  new  crop, 
and  deserted  except  for  the  bent  figures  of  the 
weeders  in  the  rows. 

"  But,  Grandfather,"  he  had  just  said,  rolling 
a  cigarette  between  his  shapely  hands,  "  living 
is  a  long  sight  cheaper  in  Paris  than  it  is  here, 
even  as  we  live.  So  economy  is  no  excuse." 

3 


THE   INVADERS 


"  O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave  " 
floated  soft  and  high,  in  broken  intervals,  from 
far  down  the  road. 

"Don't  discuss  it  now,  Dacre.  Not  now!" 
the  old  man  said  impatiently.  "  It 's  the  wrong 
time." 

"  But  La  Rose  is  holding  the  place  for  me. 
It 's  now  or  never  if  I  'm  to  work  in  his  studio. 
And  they  sail  June  twenty-eighth.  What 's  the 
use  of  holding  on  to  the  old  —  " 

"  No  use,  God  knows,  if  you  're  so  bent  on 
this  cursed  folly.  If  you  've  no  spark  of  man- 
hood in  you,  let  the  Polanders  have  it." 

The  color  flooded  the  old  man's  face,  and  he 
got  tremblingly  to  his  feet,  steadying  himself 
with  shriveled  white  hands. 

"  That 's  sense,  Grandfather.  Let  the  Po- 
landers have  the  place  —  if  they  '11  take  it !  You 
could  live  like  a  gentleman  in  an  apartment  in 
town.  The  old  house  is  tumbling  down  over 
your  head  and  the  river  is  eating  up  the  land. 
Besides,  it 's  only  fair  for  me  to  have  my 
chance." 

"  Damn  the  chance !  Your  father  and  I  — 
we  took  no  chance.  We  worked  the  old  place 
where  generations  of  our  family  had  worked 
before  us.  We  were  n't  above  work." 

4 


COLORS   IN  THE  MISTS 


"  So  we  sang  the  chorus  from  Atlanta  to  the  sea, 
As  we  were  marching  through  Georgia." 

High  and  sweet  and  nearer  came  the  young 
voices,  and  far  down  the  wide  road,  under  the 
old  rock  maples,  fluttered  the  children's  ban- 
ners. 

"  And  what  —  what  has  it  all  amounted 
to,  your  and  Father's  work  ?  "  Dacre  threw  in 
bitterly,  tossing  his  cigarette  into  the  wet 
clover. 

The  old  major  put  out  a  steadying  hand  to 
the  headstone  at  his  side.  "  Amount  to  ?  "  he 
repeated,  with  a  quick  breath.  "  Amount  to  ! 
To  a  dignified  competence  until  —  until  Ladd 
did  n't  pay  the  note  your  father  had  endorsed 
for  him.  You  know  it  all,  that  story,  as  well  as 
I  do.  Ladd  was  our  ruin.  Then  your  father 
died,  and  "  —  his  breath  came  short  —  "  and 
then  the  old  place  and  I  wore  out  —  and  the 
river  —  " 

"  That 's  just  it ! "  the  young  man  inter- 
rupted. "  The  old  place  is  worn  out.  In  a  few 
years  no  one  will  take  it  off  your  hands.  It 
would  take  thousands  of  dollars  even  to  get  it 
started  again.  Think  of  what  it  would  cost  to 
reshingle  all  those  old  roofs.  And  what 's  the 
use  when  the  river  is  practically  eating  up  the 

5 


THE  INVADERS 


land  ?  No  one  wants  to  live  on  what 's  really  an 
island  after  every  big  storm.  But  the  thing  is, 
Grandfather,  I  Ve  got  this  gift  and  now 's  — 

"  Gift !  Tomfoolery  !  Olivia  Ladd  has  made 
a  fool  of  you  just  because  you  did  those  post- 
ers for  the  college  plays.  It 's  all  Olivia's  —  " 

"  Olivia  be  damned ! "  Dacre  muttered  under 
his  breath,  reddening  darkly. 

Major  Welling  had  not  heard  him.  Instead, 
he  had  moved  a  little  way  from  the  supporting 
tombstone,  and  with  squared  shoulders  and 
lifted  hat,  stood  looking  at  the  advancing  pro- 
cession. 

"  As  He  died  to  make  men  holy, 
Let  us  die  to  make  men  free," 

sang  the  children,  turning  from  the  highway 
into  the  grassy  cemetery  road.  Two  by  two 
they  came,  flaxen  and  brown  and  black  heads 
all  bare,  a  wreath  of  running  pine  over  the  right 
shoulder,  a  flag  in  the  right  hand,  a  bunch  of 
vivid  lupin  or  swamp  pink  or  sand  violets  in  the 
left.  Behind  them,  with  eyes  for  all,  came  the 
teacher,  reaching  now  here,  now  there,  to  keep 
the  line  in  marching  order,  and  then  turning 
back  to  chat  with  the  mothers  and  big  sisters 
who  brought  up  the  rear. 

The  Major  had  advanced  still  farther  from 
6 


COLORS   IN  THE  MISTS 


under  the  maple,  and  stood  unsupported  at  the 
side  of  the  road.  The  years  seemed  suddenly  to 
have  slipped  off  him,  and,  a  young  soldier  again, 
he  stood  at  attention,  erect,  arms  at  the  side, 
keen  eyes  in  front.  At  sight  of  him,  the  child- 
ren stopped  and  looked  quickly  at  the  teacher. 

"  Cheer,"  her  lips  framed  softly,  and  she 
lifted  her  flag. 

"  Hurrah  !  Hurrah  !  Hurrah !  "  came  the  shrill 
shout.  Flags  fluttered  up  into  the  gray. 

The  Major  saluted.  His  blue  eyes  had  dimmed. 
A  faint  color  had  come  into  his  thin  cheeks. 
He  held  his  gold-corded  veteran's  hat  over  his 
heart. 

"  Fellow  soldiers,"  he  began  in  his  trembling 
old  voice,  —  "  Fellow  soldiers,  I  have  seen  Lee's 
army  and  Grant's  army  drawn  up  before  Rich- 
mond — gray  lines  and  blue  lines  as  long  as  from 
here  to  —  to  Sugarloaf  there  in  the  mist.  Often 
I  have  heard  a  whole  battlefield  of  brave  men 
singing  what  you  have  been  singing,  with  death 
waiting  for  them  just  across  the  line.  I  'veseen 
—  I  Ve  seen  "  —  his  voice  shook  and  he  fum- 
bled under  the  old  cape  for  his  handkerchief  — 
"  I  've  seen  old  flags,  bloodstained  and  shot- 

O     ' 

torn,  flutter  in  the  Shenandoah  —  and  —  and, 
fellow-soldiers,  I  've  heard  the  cheers  at  Eich- 

7 


THE  INVADERS 


mond  —  but  never  —  never  has  the  sight  been 
braver  than  now  —  now  —  " 

Before  his  voice  utterly  failed  him,  there  was 
a  break  in  the  ranks.  A  small,  square,  thick- 
headed boy,  in  a  uniform  of  bare  brown  legs 
and  over-large  denim  shirt  and  trousers,  rushed 
from  his  place  straight  to  the  Major,  with  out- 
stretched wreath  and  flag  and  flowers. 

"  Nicholas !  Nicholas  Brogodzd  !  "  called  the 
teacher ;  and  then,  when  Nicholas  heeded  not, 
"  What  has  seized  the  child  !  He  understands 
barely  a  word  of  English.  The  family  are  just 
over.  See  him  now  !  " 

Somehow,  the  Major  seemed  perfectly  to  un- 
derstand. He  was  smiling,  and  he  had  hung  the 
wreath  over,  his  arm,  and,  the  child's  hand  in 
his,  stepped  to  the  head  of  the  procession. 

"Sing,"  said  the  teacher,  smiling  through 
sudden  tears. 

"  Cover  them  over  with  beautiful  flowers, 
Deck  them  with  garlands,  those  brothers  of  ours," 

rang  the  little  voices ;  and  down  among  the 
graves  filed  Polish  and  Irish  and  Lithuanian, 
and  the  child  or  two  whose  forefathers  had 
built  the  white  meeting-house,  and  been  the 
great  men  of  the  valley. 

Dacre,  leaning  on  the  wall,  had  forgotten 
8 


COLOES   IN  THE   MISTS 


Paris  and  Olivia.  His  gray  eyes,  under  their 
thick,  level  brows,  had  lost  their  frown,  and 
regained  the  pleasant  indolence  of  expression 
that  made  women  call  them  dangerous. 

"  Rather  nice,  the  coloring,"  he  was  com- 
menting to  himself,  and  then  introspectively  re- 
joiced to  find  himself  so  sensitive  to  color. 
"  That  lupin  blue  is  good,"  he  went  on  rather 
more  deliberately  and  consciously.  "  And  those 
olive-skinned  Poles  are  n't  so  bad  in  a  lump, 
with  a  lot  of  color  around  them.  They  're  good 
in  this  gray,  even  if  the  girls'  cotton  stockings 
do  wrinkle  around  their  legs  and  the  boys' 
coatsleeves  are  all  down  over  their  knuckles. 
Drawing  bad,  coloring  good,  perhaps  sums 
up  the  picture.  And  now  —  "  He  drew  a  long 
breath. 

His  grandfather  was  beginning.  He  had 
heard  this  kind  of  thing  before.  It  was  not  art- 
istic, the  war,  and  it  had  been  rather  overdone 
—  since.  Lincoln  was  hideously  overdone. 
America  always  overdid  things.  That  was  why 
she  had  no  sort  of  art.  She  made  no  shades,  no 
nuances.  She  had  no  temperament. 

"  But  Jove !  There 's  temperament  for  you  !" 
he  found  himself  exclaiming  aloud.  "  Grand- 
father and  that  stocky,  black-eyed  little  Po- 

9 


THE   INVADERS 


lander  actually  understand  each  other  !  And 
now  look  at  them  !  " 

Then  he  fell  silent  and  watched  grouping"and 
coloring  as  the  children  and  the  Major  trimmed 
the  graves.  Around  each  headstone  or  each 
mound  they  gathered  and  listened  as  the  vet- 
eran told  of  him  who  lay  beneath,  or  whose 
memorial  it  was. 

"  In  memory  of  Richard,  who  died  at  Ship 
Island,  Miss.,  April  16, 1863,  aged  22  years,  and 
who  is  buried  there,"  he  read. 

And  then  little  Elizabeth  Chase  and  Michael 
Leary  and  Nora  O'Connor  and  Leo  Krakoski 
and  Romon  Krasinska  and  Thaddeus  Yusso, 
and  Stephanya  and  Elena  and  Apollonia  spread 
sand  violets  and  swamp  pink  and  wild  iris  over 
the  turf. 

The  gray  of  the  mist  had  grown  a  shade 
darker.  The  hills  were  gone.  The  bent  weed- 
ers  in  the  onion-fields  were  blurred  against  the 
green. 

"  Nice  the  rain  held  off  for  the  exercises," 
Miss  Hollins  was  saying  to  the  teacher.  "  And 
if  you  are  n't  the  one  for  bright  ideas !  It 's 
been  lovely.  And  what  a  genius  you  are  to  have 
Major  Welling  here  ! " 

"  He  's  enjoyed  it  too,"  Mrs.  Clabby  put  in 
10 


COLORS    IN  THE  MISTS 


breathlessly,  catching  up  to  the  others  and  pin- 
ning a  buttercup  on  her  black  calico  shirtwaist. 
"But  don't  it  seem  a  shame  that  the  old  fami- 
lies like  the  Wellings  and  the  Hammonds  and 
all  the  others  is  gittin'  pushed  out  by  the  Irish 
and  the  Polanders  !  " 

"  But  that  child  that  ran  to  him  with  the 
wreath  !  "  Miss  Hollins  interrupted.  "  If  that 's 
the  Polish  way,  it's  rather  nice,  I  think." 

"  He 's  a  bold  child,  that  Brogodzd,  or  what- 
ever his  name  is,"  Mrs.  Clabby  protested.  "  Out- 
landish names,  ain't  they  !  Wonder  who  on 
earth  ever  made  'em  up  !  " 

Dacre  had  untied  the  old  gray  mare  and  stood 
waiting  by  the  rickety  basket  phaeton.  The 
phaeton  had  been  bought  for  his  mother  before 
he  came.  As  a  small  boy  he  had  sat  in  it  on  a 
hassock  when  she  drove  his  father  back  from 
the  Boston  train.  He  could  remember  the  talk 
not  intended  for  his  ears,  of  the  low  price  of 
tobacco,  of  the  poor  corn-crop,  while  he  sucked 
lemon  stick  to  a  point  and  liked  his  father's 
knee  on  each  side  of  him. 

The  children  were  straggling  off.  The  Major 
came  slowly  out  of  the  gate,  saluting  Miss  Hol- 
lins and  Mrs.  Clabby  and  Mrs.  Leary  and  Mrs. 
Krakoski. 

11 


THE  INVADERS 


"  It 's  good  to  see  you,  Major,"  Miss  Hollins 
called.  "  And  we  '11  soon  be  seeing  Olivia, 
shan't  we,  Dacre?  Prunella  had  a  letter 
Monday." 

"  I  suppose  so,"  Dacre  answered  flatly. 

The  Major  did  not  hear.  He  was  getting 
heavily  into  the  phaeton.  Dacre  sprang  in  and 
cut  the  old  mare  sharply. 

"  At  any  rate,  it  was  n't  too  long,"  he  said. 

"  It  was  magnificent,"  the  old  man  answered 
decisively,  folding  his  hands  on  the  top  of  his 
cane. 


CHAPTER  II 

TWO    HEROINES    VIS-A-VIS 

OVER  the  coffee-urn  at  the  foot  of  Mrs.  Stur- 
gis's  rose-trimmed  table,  Olivia  could  plainly  see 
the  mountains.  It  was  this  relieving  glimpse 
that  had  decided  her  on  taking  Mrs.  Chase's 
coffee-urn  at  the  foot  of  the  table  rather  than 
Mrs.  Archibald's  solid  silver  heirloom  teapot  at 
the  head.  Prunella  Loomis,  Miss  Hollins's  niece, 
profited  perhaps  by  the  choice,  for  the  bow- 
window,  with  its  open  sashes  looking  out  into 
blowing,  fragrant  wood  bine,  made  an  admirable 
background  for  her  dark  prettiness  in  her  last 
summer's  yellow  organdie. 

"  I  feel  selfish,  Olivia,"  Prunella  called  down 
over  the  roses  and  bonbons  and  wafers  among 
the  dozen  borrowed  candlesticks  under  the  pink 
shades.  "  There  's  an  elegant  breeze  here  for  a 
background.  You  '11  be  hot  when  the  rush 


comes." 


"But  your  breeze  is  my  foreground,  you 
know,"  Olivia  said,  a  little  too  cleverly,  thought 
Prunella,  who  had  n't  been  graduated  from  col- 
lege the  day  before  with  high  honors.  In  fact, 

13 


THE  INVADERS 


it  was  more  the  idea  that  Olivia  had  been  to 
college  than  the  cleverness  of  what  she  had 
just  answered  that  made  Prunella  think  it  too 
clever. 

As  yet,  the  crush  had  n't  come.  Mrs.  Stur- 
gis's  committee  had  announced  the  Food  Sale 
for  from  three  to  six,  to  give  time,  after  the  vil- 
lage dinners,  for  dishwashing  and  the  begin- 
ning of  another  appetite,  and,  before  the  village 
suppers,  for  heating  up  left-overs  and  setting 
forth  the  purchases  of  the  afternoon.  It  was 
only  just  three  o'clock,  striking  flatly  from  the 
spire  of  the  very  white  meeting-house  whose 
leaky  roof  was  the  cause  of  this  daring  culinary 
enterprise.  In  the  front  parlor  there  were  only 
half  a  dozen  or  so  forerunners  of  the  crush,  lean- 
ing over  the  two  narrow  damask-covered  coun- 
ters that  ran  imposingly  the  length  of  the 
low-ceiled  old  room,  and  eying  and  smelling  the 
brown  of  things  baked  and  roasted  and  pre- 
served, and  the  green  and  gold  of  things 
dressed. 

Mrs.  Archibald,  holding  her  eyeglasses  over 
her  nose,  affected  great  interest  in  Sarah  Tib- 
betts's  raised  cake  at  one  dollar  a  loaf,  but  in 
reality  she  was  looking  at  Olivia  Ladd.  She  had 
come  early,  indeed,  rather  for  the  purpose  of 

14 


TWO  HEROINES  VIS-A-VIS 

looking  at  Olivia  Ladd  than  for  getting  first 
choice  of  the  wares. 

"  Made  from  her  Aunt  Caroline  Eversham's 
rule,  and  such  a  f  rostin' !  Not  a  slab  in  the  bury- 
ing-ground  has  a  more  marblelike  look,"  Mrs. 
Egerton  said  enthusiastically,  moving  the  cake 
into  a  better  showing. 

"  If  'twas  just  me," Mrs.  Archibald  hesitated, 
confidentially,  "  I  'd  buy  in  a  minute.  But  Ab- 
ner  's  so  squeamish.  He  always  says  raised  cake 
don't  set.  I  '11  sorter  look  round  at  the  salad." 

Just  in  a  line  with  the  raised  cake,  the  din- 
ing-room door  framed  Olivia  in  her  scant,  heavy 
white  linen,  seated  tall  behind  the  coffee-urn. 
More  than  Olivia,  the  doorway  revealed  little 
except  cups  and  saucers  and  the  shine  of  one 
candle.  Olivia  was  disposing  her  cups  around 
the  tray  with  a  view  to  more  expeditious  pour- 
ing when  business  grew  brisk.  Her  arms  looked 
brown  below  the  severe  conclusion  of  her  elbow 
sleeves. 

"  Pretty  plain  dressin' !  "  Mrs.  Archibald  ex- 
claimed abstractedly.  "  The  taste  would  have 
been  better  if  —  " 

"  Law,  no  !  It 's  real  mayonnaise.  You  just 
try  it,  Mrs.  Archibald,"  Mrs.  Egerton  spoke  up 

promptly,  handing  over  a  fork.  "  An'  salads  do 

15 


THE   INVADERS 


set  well !  Why,  Dr.  Barker  says  folks  ought  to 
drink  olive  oil." 

"It  was  Livvy  Ladd  I  was  talkin'  about," 
Mrs.  Archibald  corrected  her.  "  Considerin'  the 
occasion  and  her  just  home  from  college,  and 
the  standin'  of  the  family  an'  all,  it  does  seem 
like  she  might  have  —  " 

"Standin'  of  the  family!"  Mrs.  Egerton  ex- 
claimed, dropping  stoutly  on  the  Sheraton  chair 
behind  the  counter.  "  Standin'  don't  pay  your 
bills  !  An'  the  talk  is  —  Mr.  Egerton  got  it  in 
meetin'  last  night  —  the  talk  is  that  Mary  Ladd 
is  mortgaged  up  to  her  eyes  —  even  the  high 
pasture.  An'  you  know  what  store  Lawyer  Ladd 
set  by  that  high  pasture.  Why,  he  '11  turn  in 
his  —  " 

Mrs.  Archibald's  glasses  just  escaped  the 
potato  salad  as  they  fell.  "  You  don't  say !  Even 
the  high  pasture  ! "  she  repeated  in  a  lowered 
tone.  "  Who  's  Mary  mortgaged  to  ?  And  her 
that  proud ! " 

"  Mortgaged  to  ?  Why,  to  the  Irish,  of  course. 
To  that  Mike  Joyce  that  has  made  such  fine 
onion  and  tobacco  crops  on  the  Hollins's  place. 
Yes,  even  the  high  pasture  with  the  trout  brook 
and  the  chestnut  grove.  Think  of  Lawyer  Ladd 
—  and  now  this  Irishman  ! " 

16 


TWO   HEROINES  VIS-A-VIS 


Mrs.  Archibald  leaned  far  over  the  salads 
and  affected  to  pull  her  skimp  black  net  veil 
down  over  her  mouth.  "  An'  they  say,"  she 
murmured,  looking  down  at  the  salmon  and 
lettuce,  "they  say  that  Livvy  Ladd  an'  Dacre 
Welling  are  as  good  as  engaged.  What  they  '11 
marry  on  I  'd  like  to  know !  he  ain't  worth 
shucks." 

"  She  '11  do  the  sup —  Yes,  raised  cake,  Miss 
Hollins.  One  dollar  a  loaf.  Sarah  Tibbetts  made 
it.  Ain't  it  lovely !  But  it  does  seem  funny  to 
see  you  buyin'  cake,  Miss  Hollins,  when  folks 
in  town  can't  get  enough  of  your  sponge  cake." 

Olivia,  too,  was  leaning  across  the  table  talk- 
ing to  her  neighbor  at  the  head.  Her  conversa- 
tion held  none  of  the  aloofness  of  her  preceding 
remark. 

"  I  soiled  all  my  dresses  during  Commence- 
ment," she  was  saying,  "and  so  to-day  I  just 
had  to  wear  this.  You  see,  I  got  home  late  last 
night,  and  then  I  overslept  this  morning. 
Mamma  woke  me  up  at  noon  to  tell  me  about 
coming  here  —  that  she  'd  accepted  for  me. 
And  this  old  linen  was  positively  the  only  clean 
thing  I  had  except  a  khaki  and  an  evening 
gown.  You  're  too  sweet  for  words,  Prunella,  in 
that  buff!" 

17 


THE   INVADERS 


"  But  to  wear  heavy  white  linen,  plain,  like 
that !  "  Prunella  sighed.  "  I  'd  give  worlds  to  ! 
You  remind  me  somehow  of  that  Copley  print 
of  Charity  in  the  Church  Parlors." 

Olivia  laughed,  and  put  a  chocolate  between 
her  firm  white  teeth.  "  I  felt  more  like  a  Perry 
picture,"  she  said,  "at  Commencement  —  so 
many  caps  and  gowns,  all  so  uniform  and  so  — 
so  instructive !  Why,  Mrs.  Archibald  !  Awfully 
glad  to  see  you !  What  do  you  hear  from 
Marion  ?  "  And  she  rose  and  heartily  shook  Mrs. 
Archibald's  little  claw  in  its  black  cotton  glove. 

"  Marion  's  well.  I  heard  yesterday.  Prunella 
knows  I  got  a  nice  fat  letter,  don't  you,  Pru- 
nella? That's  the  advantage  of  bein'  postmis- 
tress, ain't  it  ?  Marion 's  in  Kwasi  Twang  now 
— one  hundred  and  ninety-two  patients  in  the 
mission  hospital,  and  the  school  crowded.  Seems 
just  yesterday  you  an'  Marion  was  in  the  Acad- 
emy an'  goin'  skatin'  with  Dacre  Welling.  Seen 
Dacre  yet  ?  His  grandfather 's  pretty  poorly, 
they  tell  me." 

Olivia's  close  ears  grew  quickly  pink.  "  Not 
yet,"  she  said,  with  a  nice  enunciation.  "And 
now,  Mrs.  Archibald,  you  '11  take  a  cup  of  coffee 
with  me,  and  we  '11  drink  to  Marion.  You  see, 
you  can  have  tea  any  time  out  of  your  grand 

18 


TWO  HEROINES   VIS-A-VIS 


silver  teapot."  And  she  laughed  down  to  Pru- 
nella, whose  business  was  growing  so  lively  she 
was  not  aware. 

"  How  'd  you  find  your  mother  ? "  Mrs. 
Archibald  went  on  sociably.  "  Yes,  cream  and 
two  lumps.  Seemed  to  me  last  week  at  Society 
she  did  n't  look  like  herself." 

"  Oh,  Mamma  seems  well.  Perhaps  she  was 
just  tired  that  time,"  Olivia  answered.  "  But, 
tell  the  truth,  I  've  hardly  had  a  real  look  at 
her.  Last  night  there  was  such  oceans  to  tell 
her,  and  this  morning  I  overslept." 

"  Like  as  not  she  was  tired  an'  sorter  home- 
sick for  you,  all  alone  in  that  great  house. 
Lands !  I  know  what  that  feelin'  is!  Now  you're 
home  —  " 

"  It  will  be  blissful,"  Olivia  said  joyously. 
"  I  'm  just  crammed  with  energy  and  I  '11  give 
Mamma  a  real  rest  —  take  ah"  her  cares  away. 
Come  to  see  us  soon,  Mrs.  Archibald." 

The  crush  had  come.  Prunella's  breeze  had 
stopped,  too.  Girls  in  white,  with  roses  ill  at 
ease  in  their  high  pompadours,  crowded  around 
the  teapot,  holding  out  their  trays.  Olivia's 
cups  filed  rapidly  up  to  the  urn  from  the  ranks 
in  which  she  had  placed  them.  With  her  finger 
on  the  spigot,  she  gave  her  smiles  and  her 

19 


THE  INVADERS 


greetings,  as  the  crowd  pressed  around  and 
lingered. 

"AB.S.  not  a  B.A.,"  she  laughingly  cor- 
rected Miss  Hollins,  who,  burdened  with  the 
raised  cake  and  a  pot  of  beans,  paused  to  wel- 
come and  congratulate.  "  Thank  you  so  much 
for  your  good  wishes!  How  lovely  Prunella 
looks !  Come  to  see  us ! "  And  when  Mrs. 
Clabby  set  down  her  jar  of  last  year's  chipped 
pear  and  a  quarter  of  a  gold  cake,  she  let  a  cup 
run  over  while  she  exclaimed  joyously,  "  Oh, 
Mrs.  Clabby !  I  'm  so  glad  to  see  you !  How 
well  you  look !  Yes,  I  'm  feeling  fine.  Do  come 
to  see  us ! " 

She  wanted  everybody  to  come  to  see  them.  It 
was  glorious  to  come  home  so  triumphantly  and 
find  so  many  friends.  She  felt  as  if  she  wanted 
to  welcome  every  one  in  the  village,  not  so  much 
because  she  wanted  to  see  them  as  because  she 
longed  to  make  them  all  feel  her  power  and  her 
energy  and  her  high  ambition.  Even  there  in 
the  crowd,  watching  the  coffee  bubbling  into 
the  cups,  she  was  aware  of  her  splendid  self, 
of  a  greatness  of  some  kind  that  was  ahead  of 
her,  and  that  made  her  quite  different  from 
them  all  and  very  kind  to  them  all  —  except  to 
Dacre.  She  flushed  as  she  remembered  that  to 
20 


TWO  HEROINES   VIS-A-VIS 

him  she  had  decided  quite  definitely  not  to  be 
kind,  that  she  had  put  him  quite  out  of  the 
new  and  brilliant  and  world-free  career  that  was 
opening  before  her.  Sweethearting  was  the  way 
of  mere  boys  and  girls. 

"  She  's  her  father  all  over,  square  jaw,  gray 
eyes,  and  all,"  Miss  Hollins  was  saying  in  the 
doorway.  "  And  if  ever  there  was  a  well-mean- 
ing man ! " 

In  a  lull  towards  the  end,  when  Prunella's 
breeze  had  again  sprung  up,  and  the  garden 
sweetness  was  coming  in  through  the  small  old 
windows,  and  Prunella  herself  had  gone  to  buy 
whatever  was  left  so  as  to  help  out  supper,  some 
one  drew  near  Olivia's  urn  without  giving  her 
greeting  or  congratulation.  It  was  a  very  slen- 
derly made,  delicately  colored  young  person  in 
a  very  unstylish  white  mull  gown. 

"  It  will  be  very  good  coffee  that  I  am  smell- 
ing," she  said  in  a  voice  that  was  quite  aston- 
ishingly not  American,  depositing  a  large  straw- 
berry shortcake  on  the  table.  "  A  cup,  if  you 
please,  and  I  am  not  too  late." 

"  It  is  not  so  good  now,  perhaps,"  Olivia 
apologized  as  she  filled  the  cup,  thinking  the 
while  of  the  blueness  of  the  girl's  eyes,  and 
wondering  how  the  strange  use  of  the  future 

21 


THE  INVADEKS 


tense  and  the  sweet  Gaelic  inflection  chanced 
at  a  Fernfield  food  sale.  She  still  wondered, 
after  the  stranger  had  taken  her  coffee  and 
stood  halfway  down  the  table,  sipping  and  look- 
ing out  at  the  garden ;  but  then  the  wonder  was 
at  the  drooping  Leghorn  hat  with  its  super- 
abundant tulle  trimmings,  and  the  tulle  strings 
tied  under  the  round  chin.  Presently,  the  deli- 
cately colored  young  person  put  down  her  cup 
and  her  quarter,  and  took  up  her  big  shortcake. 

"  Here,  in  your  American  gardens,  I  miss 
much  the  sweet  of  the  wallflower,"  she  said, 
lifting  her  blue,  blue  eyes  with  the  black  lashes. 
"  At  my  home,  at  this  time  of  the  evening,  it 
does  be  coming  in  through  the  windows  from 
the  haggart.  I  thank  you  for  the  serving." 

Prunella  came  just  here,  bearing  half  of  a 
baked  ham,  a  jar  of  last  season's  pears,  and  a 
loaf  of  brown  bread. 

"  There ! "  she  exclaimed  triumphantly.  "  That 
ought  to  make  a  supper  for  six  boarders  !  And 
Aunt  Lou  got  raised  cake  and  beans,  did  n't 
she  ?  " 

Olivia  rose.  "  Who  is  that  adorable  girl  ?  " 
she  cried  softly.  "I  couldn't  even  be  polite, 
she  was  so  sweet." 

Prunella  put  down  the  supper.  "  That 's  Bride 
22 


TWO  HEROINES  VIS-A-VIS 

Joyce,  old  Mike  Joyce's  niece.  Is  n't  she  Irish 
for  you !  And  what  a  brogue !  " 

"  She 's  Gaelic,  not  Irish,"  Olivia  said  deci- 
sively, "  and  her  intonation  is  lovely." 

"I  never  thought  of  that,"  Prunella  said 
simply.  "  But  don't  you  stop  to  help  clear  up, 
Olivia." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  Olivia  answered  briskly,  piling 
cups. 


CHAPTER  III 

MATCH   TO   WICK 

IT  was  the  old  hanging  Chinese  lamp  in  the 
hall  that  betrayed  to  Olivia  her  mother's  face. 
Mrs.  Ladd  stood  on  a  chair,  reaching  up  with 
a  flaring  match.  Olivia,  coming  around  the  wide 
curve  of  the  stairway,  after  a  late  return  from 
the  food  sale,  stopped  short.  That  moment 
shifted  her  life  to  leeward. 

"  0  Mamma,  let  me !  You  're  tired ! "  she  cried, 
running  down. 

"  I  am  —  a  little,"  Mrs.  Ladd  admitted  almost 
sharply  as  the  match  flared  out  and  left  them 
in  darkness. 

Olivia  fumbled  on  the  hall  table  among  para- 
sols and  garden  hats.  "  Where  are  the  matches?" 
she  asked  breathlessly. 

"  Are  n't  they  there  ?  I  '11  get  some,"  her 
mother  said,  a  little  vaguely. 

Olivia,  left  alone  in  the  dark  hall  full  of  the 
night  fragrances  from  the  wide-open  door,  felt 
her  heart  in  her  throat.  A  wild  fear  chilled  her, 
as  if  the  darkness  were  full  of  terrors,  the  great 
empty  house  conscious.  Something  had  changed 

24 


MATCH  TO  WICK 


in  her  mother's  face.  Mrs.  Archibald  had  said 
so.  The  lines  around  the  mouth  —  up-and-down 
lines  —  Her  mother's  nose  had  never  shown  that 
shape  before.  Between  the  brows  — 

"  I  'm  coming,"  Mrs.  Ladd  called  from  the 
pantry. 

Olivia  drew  a  deep  breath.  Out  through 
the  wide-open  front  door,  a  young  moon  was 
riding  high  above  the  tall  elms  in  the  street. 
The  woodbine  at  the  parlor  windows  was  heav- 
ily sweet. 

"  Guess  you  thought  I  'd  never  come,"  Mrs. 
Ladd  said,  feeling  for  the  sandpaper  under  the 
matchbox.  "I  entirely  forgot  to  get  matches 
this  morning  when  I  was  down-street.  You  can 
reach  up  easily  with  your  long  arms."  She  spoke 
with  a  recovered  cheerfulness  that  was  almost 
too  cheerful. 

Olivia  took  the  match  and  reached  up,  and 
presently  threw  into  flickering  relief  red  and 
blue  Chinamen  and  purple  pagodas. 

"  There ! "  her  mother  exclaimed  gayly. 
"  Now  we  '11  get  some  supper.  It 's  such  a  relief 
to  have  you  at  home,  child.  That  pot  of  beans 
you  brought  from  the  sale  will  be  just  the  thing. 
And  lady  cake,  you  say  ?  Lou  Hollins's  cake  ? 
That 's  always  good,  like  Lou.  And  you  say 

25 


THE  INVADERS 


Prunella  was  buying  supper  for  the  boarders  ? 
Poor  little  Prunella  !  " 

They  were  going  back  to  the  kitchen,  Mrs. 
Ladd's  thin  hand  red  over  the  match  she  was 
saving  to  light  the  dining-room  lamp. 

"I'm  not  very  hungry,"  Olivia  said;  then 
felt  the  loss  of  gayety  in  her  own  tone  and 
added  quickly,  with  a  laugh,  "  Nibbling  at  re- 
ceptions and  teas  and  places  always  takes  my 
appetite." 

"But  you  must  eat  something,  my  dear;  I 
have  n't  had  you  at  the  table  with  me  since  you 
came  home.  Some  tea  will  do  us  both  good. 
And  then  "  —  she  was  buttoning  a  white  apron 
around  her  thin,  flat  waist  —  "then  there's 
much  to  talk  about." 

"  Oceans  ! "  Olivia  exclaimed  enthusiastically. 
"  You  have  n't  had  a  chance  to  tell  me  any- 
thing, I  've  chattered  so  of  myself.  I  '11  set  the 
table  and  do  it  all,  Mamma  dear.  I  'd  love  to. 
You  rest." 

"  Why,  you  don't  know  where  half  the  things 
are.  How  could  you  keep  pots  and  pans  in  your 
head  with  a  class  poem?  There!  Don't  take 
down  the  Canton  plates.  You  're  not  company, 
even  if  you  are  a  Bachelor  of  Science."  And 
Mrs.  Ladd  gave  the  fine,  soft  little  laugh  that 

26 


MATCH  TO   WICK 


she  had  inherited  with  the  Canton  plates  from 
the  Adamses. 

"  Of  course !  How  stupid  of  me  !  "  Olivia 
laughed  hack,  putting  the  familiar  white  and 
gold  on  the  old  mahogany  table  with  its  dish 
of  garden  roses.  "But  I '11  soon  get  pots  and 
pans  in  and  poems  out,  Mamma.  You  '11  see ! " 

"  That 's  what  there  is  to  talk  about,"  Mrs. 
Ladd  said,  her  thin  lips  again  a  line  after  her 
smile.  "  But  first  I  '11  make  the  tea  and  get  the 
bread  and  butter." 

Olivia  knew  the  napkin  rings,  but  she  ab- 
sently reversed  them ;  then  stood  holding  the 
knives  and  forks  indecisively. 

"  And  the  chipped  pear  you  love  so,  Olivia, 
is  in  the  small  Mason  jar  on  the  third  shelf  in 
the  pantry,"  Mrs.  Ladd  went  on  from  the 
kitchen.  "  I  have  n't  done  any  strawberries  this 
year." 

Olivia  fumbled  in  the  pantry. 

"  Foolish  child !  If  it  had  been  a  bear,  it 
would  have  bitten  you !"  her  mother  said,  reach- 
ing over  her  shoulder.  "You're  not  in  the 
chemical  laboratory,  —  just  in  a  plain  pantry. 
How  sunburned  your  arms  are,  Olivia  !  " 

"  From  rowing,  and  it 's  made  them  so  hard 
and  strong.  I  'm  ready  for  any  kind  of  work, 

27 


THE  INVADERS 


Mamma."  And  she  again  got  her  voice  back 
into  its  natural  tone,  and  found  the  glass  dish 
and  turned  out  the  chipped  pear. 

Presently,  tea  was  on  the  table,  and  the  high 
lamp  stood  by  the  bowl  of  roses  in  the  centre. 
Olivia,  from  her  place  at  the  foot,  could  see 
through  one  doorway  into  the  long,  unlighted 
double  parlors,  with  the  glint  of  a  stray  moon- 
beam on  the  girandoles  at  the  far  end.  Through 
the  other  doorway  was  the  hall,  where  a  June 
bug  bumped  noisily  against  the  Chinese  lamp, 
and  the  moonlight  lay  across  the  threshold. 
Nothing  in  the  big  old  house  was  as  loud  as  a 
young  frog  outside  in  the  matted  lilybed. 

Mrs.  Ladd  rebuttered  a  thin  bit  of  bread. 
"  Maids  are  out  of  the  question,"  she  was  saying 
slowly.  "  The  Polanders  you  would  n't  have  in 
your  house,  and  the  Irish  are  so  superstitious 
and  impudent  and  full  of  airs,  and  so — " 

"  And  you  've  done  it  all,  Mamma  ?  Since 
Christmas?  Been  quite  alone,  too?  Why,  I 
should  never  have  gone  to  Philadelphia  Easter 
if  I  'd  dreamed  —  Why,  Mamma !  No  wonder 
you  are  thin  !  Since  Christmas,  Mamma  ?  " 

"  Yes-s  —  since  Christmas.  That  is  not  a 
very  long  time.  And  I  never  was  —  corpulent. 
You  are  splendid  and  strong,  are  n't  you,  dear ! 

28 


MATCH  TO   WICK 


Ready  for  anything !  "  And  she  put  down  the 
bit  of  bread,  and  leaned  back,  stirring  her  tea. 

Olivia  was  seeing  fearfully  the  thin  whiteness 
of  the  hair  over  the  pale  temples. 

"Ready  for  anything  and  everything, 
Mamma,"  she  said,  "and  come  back  just  in 
time  to  take  care  of  you.  Everybody  was  so 
nice  to-day  and  so  glad  to  see  me,  and  I  told 
them  I  was  going  to  take  right  hold  and  make 
you  rest." 

"  So  they  were  talking  about  me  to-day,  were 
they?  "  her  mother  interrupted  quietly,  with  a 
faint  little  smile,  "and  you  are  going  to  make 
me  rest ! " 

"  Yes,  Mamma,  I  am  going  to  make  you  rest, 
and  you  must  obey.  I  have  such  a  fine  scheme. 
Let 's  shut  up  the  house  and  go  to  Europe. 
Living  's  awfully  cheap  there.  Betty  Preston 
says  you  can  buy  a  huge  cherry  tart  for  ten 
cents.  And  Professor  Chandler  wants  me  to 
have  at  least  a  year  in  Gottingen,  and  you  could 
rest,  Mamma,  and  have  music  and  art  and 
things  while  I  work — have  all  the  things  you  've 
wanted  and  never  had,  Mamma !  " 

In  her  eagerness,  she  pushed  the  dishes  away 
and  leaned  across  the  table,  her  face  close  to 
the  roses.  The  June  bug  had  come  in  from  the 

29 


THE  INVADERS 


hall,  and  bumped  furiously  against  the  old  line 
engravings  of  Highland  huntsmen  and  fisher- 
men. "  Let 's,  Mamma  dear,"  she  pleaded. 

Mrs.  Ladd's  spoon  fell  sharply  to  the  floor. 
She  did  net  pick  it  up.  Instead,  she  clenched 
her  hands  on  the  arms  of  the  high  Chippendale 
chair. 

"  My  dear,"  she  began  slowly,  "  when  you 
hear  that  —  when  you  hear  that  —  Can  you 
bear  it,  dear  ?  " 

Olivia  laughed  and  grew  as  pale  as  her  linen 
gown.  "Bear  it !  What,  Mamma  ?  Anything !  " 
And  again  she  laughed  and  looked  away  from 
the  hands  gripping  the  chair,  following  the 
angry  June  bug. 

"  Bear  to  know  that  —  that  the  place  is  n't 
ours  any  more  —  not  a  blade  of  grass  on  it  ours 
—  that  the  —  the  Irish  hold  it.  Can  you  bear 
that,  Olivia  ?  Your  father  used  to  say  I  knew 
how  to  keep  a  secret !  Can  you  bear  it  ?  " 

The  June  bug  fell  into  the  great  Canton  bowl 
on  the  high  mahogany  sideboard.  Olivia  watched 
him  fall.  Her  mother  saw  only  her  profile,  then 
her  full  face  very  white,  but  in  a  smile. 

"  0  Mamma  !  Bear  it  ?  Of  course  I  can  bear 
that !  It  might  have  been  that  you  had  some 
fearful  thing  the  matter  with  you.  Why, 

30 


MATCH  TO  WICK 


Mamma,  Mamma  !  Of  course  I  can  bear  that ! 
And  I  '11  pay  it  off.  You  '11  see  ! " 

She  had  left  her  place  and  gone  round  to  her 
mother,  and  knelt  and  caught  the  gray  head 
close  to  her  warm  young  bosom.  "  Those  horrid, 
horrid  Irish  !  If  only  the  steamships  would  re- 
fuse to  bring  them !  But,  Mamma,  I  'm  so 
thankful  it 's  only  that !  And  must  we  go  right 
away?  And  who  holds  the  mortgage?"  She 
was  keeping  back,  it  seemed  to  her,  thousands 
of  tears  that  were  turned  into  sharp,  burning 
plans  and  schemes  —  plans  and  schemes  that 
gleamed  and  stung  as  they  whirled  through  her 
mind.  And  her  arms  were  aware  of  the  small- 
ness  of  her  mother's  body  in  her  warm,  strong 
embrace. 

"  We  have  a  year  yet  before  the  foreclosure 
—  and  the  man  —  the  man  is  that  Joyce  —  that 
Michael  Joyce  —  that  great  common,  grasping 
man  that  has  the  Hollins  place,  Olivia.  I  've 
never  seen  him  —  I  would  n't  see  him !  But  he 
just  owns  this  valley."  She  was  murmuring  on 
out  of  Olivia's  neck,  and  Olivia  was  patting  the 
thin  cheek,  and  understanding,  and  looking 
back  over  the  ten  years  since  her  father's  death, 
and  putting  two  and  two  together,  and  biting 
her  lips  and  telling  herself  to  face  it,  and 

31 


THE  INVADERS 


murmuring,  "  Is  that  all,  Mamma  !  Is  that 
all?" 

Presently,  Mrs.  Ladd  drew  away  and  leaned 
back  and  stared  at  the  lamp.  Olivia  sat  on  her 
heels,  as  she  had  sat  as  a  child,  and  stroked  a 
thin  hand.  The  hardest  to  bear  was  what  she 
had  never  seen  before  —  tears  on  her  mother's 
cheeks.  Not  even  when  they  had  brought  her 
father  in  from  the  high  pasture  drowned,  not 
even  when  word  had  come  that  the  only  boy, 
Winthrop,  had  died  in  the  Arizona  mines,  — 
not  even  then  had  Mrs.  Ladd  shed  tears.  Now 
she  drew  her  eyes  away  from  the  lamp  and  got 
up  slowly.  When  she  was  quite  erect,  and  stood 
by  her  chair  with  her  hand  on  the  high  back, 
she  drew  in  a  quick  little  breath. 

"  There  is  more,"  she  said.  "  Perhaps  it  is 
better  for  you  to  know  all  now.  Then  you  will 
see  clearly.  But  you  must  not  waste  yourself 
feeling  sorry  for  me.  I  cannot  permit  that.  You 
must  promise." 

"  That  is  the  only  thing  that  I  cannot  seem 
to  bear,  Mamma,  —  that  you  should  suffer." 
Olivia  had  risen  too.  Her  hands  were  bitterly 
cold.  She  could  guess  what  was  coming.  She 
had  guessed  it  before,  from  something  Mrs. 
Clabby  had  said,  but  it  had  never  been  made  a 
32 


MATCH  TO   WICK 


certainty  to  her.  The  June  bug  buzzed  angrily 
in  the  Canton  bowl. 

"  It  only  seems  that  you  cannot  bear  it,"  her 
mother  was  saying  quite  calmly.  "  Your  father 
was  a  brilliant  man,  but  he  was  not  brave.  You 
are  both  brilliant  and  brave.  He  drowned  him- 
self that  day  in  the  high  pasture  —  because  of 

—  of  his  debts.  My  child !  My  child  !  " 

For  a  minute,  it  seemed  to  Olivia  that  she 
was  not  brave:  she  could  feel  the  blood  all 
leave  her  heart  in  one  great  surge.  "  Oh  !  Oh  !  " 
she  whispered  and  dropped  her  forehead  on  the 
seat  of  her  mother's  chair. 

Mrs.  Ladd  stooped  and  kissed  her  hot,  buried 
cheek. 

"  But  he  was  brilliant  —  and  lovable  —  and 

—  and  beautiful,  my  dear,"  she  said.  "That's 
all  that  you  have  to  remember." 

Olivia's  shoulders  shook. 

"  I  have  been  teaching  myself  all  these  years 
what  to  remember  —  and  what  to  forget,"  her 
mother  went  on.  "  Women  have  to  —  to  dis- 
criminate and  be  loyal." 

The  girl  looked  up,  white,  but  smiling  faintly. 

"  I  will  discriminate,  Mamma,"  she  said. 

"  And  hold  your  head  very  high,  dear !  That 
helps ! " 

33 


THE   INVADERS 


Olivia  got  up  and  pushed  back  her  hair,  very 
erect  against  the  glow  of  the  lamp.  She  was 
thinking  of  a  young  maple  tree  she  had  seen 
twisted  and  contorted  in  a  summer  gale.  That 
was  herself  to  herself.  She  pressed  her  eyes, 
then  opened  them.  The  June  bug  flew  airily, 
gayly  out  of  the  Canton  bowl  and  away  into  the 
cool  hall  where  the  Chinamen  and  the  pagodas 
were  flickering  in  the  night  breeze. 

Mrs.  Ladd  picked  up  the  spoon.  "  Just  pile 
the  dishes  in  the  pantry,  dear.  We  '11  do  the 
washing  in  the  morning." 

That  night,  out  of  the  stillness  of  the  softly 
blowing  trees  and  the  faint  sound  of  the  river 
down  at  the  dam  by  the  sawmill,  Olivia  listened 
to  hear  her  mother's  breathing  from  the  room 
across  the  hall.  Once  she  tiptoed  to  the  door  and 
strained  her  ears  to  find  whether  she  was  asleep. 
Then,  not  long  after  midnight  had  struck  on  the 
old  white  meeting-house,  as  she  lay  throbbingly 
still,  planning  and  remembering,  remembering 
and  planning,  she  opened  her  eyes  to  find  her 
mother's  thin  white  figure  at  her  bedside. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said,  "  there's  nothing  more 

to  tell  you.  You  are  braver  than  I  thought  you, 

and  what 's  even   better,   you   have   common 

sense.  But  there  's  something  to  beg  of  you  — 

34 


MATCH  TO  WICK 


to  implore  you.  To-morrow  we  must  be  quite 
practical.  I  've  never  permitted  myself  any  sen- 
timent —  about  myself.  You  've  got  your  edu- 
cation. That 's  been  the  point.  The  next  thing 
will  be  your  marriage.  Marry  out  of  the  valley. 
Marry  money  and  success  and — and —  and  new, 
fresh  blood.  We  old  families  —  somehow  we  've 
petered  out,  as  your  Uncle  Josiah  would  ex- 
press it." 

Olivia  sat  up  in  bed  suddenly  and  held  out 
her  arms.  "  It 's  all  over  with  Dacre,  Mamma," 
she  whispered.  "  It 's  quite  all  over  —  if  that 's 
what  you  fear.  I  told  him  so  three  weeks  ago 
—  that  I  hated  his  indolence.  And  now  I  want 
just  you  —  bravest  Mamma  !  " 

Mrs.  Ladd  had  moved  to  the  window  and 
turned  back  the  gently  blowing  curtain.  "  How 
thick  the  fireflies  are  in  the  orchard  !  "  she  said. 
"  Good-night,  bravest  child ! " 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE    CURL    ON    THE    LIPS    OF    HER 

ONIONS  may  be  very  successfully  grown  on 
selected  areas  of  the  heavy  fine  sandy  loams  or 
the  light  silty  loams  of  the  river  meadows.  On- 
ions grown  on  muck  soils,  however,  are  poorer 
in  quality  than  those  grown  on  very  rich  sandy 
loam  or  silty  loams,  soils  which,  with  efficient 
management,  will  bring  highly  satisfactory  re- 
sults." 

"  Muck  soils  !  "  Mr.  Patrick  Joyce  repeated 
dreamily  to  himself,  with  a  generous  yawn. 
"Muck  soils!" 

It  was  desperately  hot,  that  June  afternoon, 
the  day  after  the  food  sale.  "  Muck  soils  and 
light  —  silty  —  loams  —  "  The  words  meant 
nothing  to  him  in  that  sultry  quiet.  Once 
more  he  read  them,  then  threw  down  the  book. 
It  was  a  sizable  book,  that  Yearbook  of  the 
Department  of  Agriculture,  and  it  made  some- 
thing of  a  noise  as  it  landed  on  the  bare  floor 
of  the  almost  deserted  office  in  the  big,  bare 
town  hall.  But  the  noise  was  stimulating  in  the 
hot  silence,  and  it  aroused  Mr.  Joyce  not  only 

36 


THE   CURL   ON  THE  LIPS   OF  HER 

to  searching  for  his  little  black  pipe  in  the 
pockets  of  his  light  serge  coat,  but  also  to  get- 
ting up  from  his  desk  and  wandering  to  the 
open  window  that  looked  out  into  the  wide  old 
street  with  its  tall  elms  and  its  thick  turf  and 
its  proud,  high-roofed,  ancient  houses.  There 
ought  to  have  been  something  of  a  breeze 
through  the  room,  for  the  door  bearing  the  im- 
posing announcement "  Office  of  the  Selectmen  " 
stood  wide  open,  inviting  any  and  every  stray 
breath  of  air  to  blow  in  from  the  long,  dusty 
corridor. 

The  fragrance  of  the  freshly  lighted  Burley 
stimulated  the  smoker  into  still  further  activity. 
After  seating  himself  in  the  broad  window  sill, 
he  began  to  whistle  softly  and  musically  an  air 
that  surely  would  not  have  been  recognized  by 
any  average  New  Englander  strolling  by.  But 
to  the  whistler  it  seemed  mighty  familiar,  for 
he  whistled  it  up  and  down  and  roundabout  in 
flutelike  variations,  and  then,  as  if  much  in  love 
with  his  accomplishment,  he  sent  it  forth  in  a 
very  engaging  barytone,  into  the  very  bird's 
nests  in  the  elm  outside. 

"  Would  God  I  were  a  little  apple  blossom 
To  float  and  fall  from  off  the  twisted  bough," 

37 


THE   INVADERS 


he  sang,  and  leaned  his  dark  head  against  the 
window  and  looked  up  at  the  blue  above  the 
tree-tops  and  then  absently  out  at  the  grassy, 
elm-shaded  path  that  served  as  sidewalk. 

"  Or  would  I  were  a  little  burnished  apple 
For  you  to  pluck  me  —  " 

He  stopped.  He  had  an  audience,  or  had  had. 
Two  girls  coming  slowly  across  the  street  from 
the  post-office  looked  up  a  moment,  then  quickly 
away.  Mr.  Joyce  took  a  long  pull  at  his  little 
black  bogwood  with  its  carved  shamrocks.  He 
knew  one  of  the  girls.  It  was  Prunella  Loomis, 
the  postmistress.  What  would  she  be  thinking 
and  him  wishing  himself  a  little  burnished 
apple  !  "  For  you  to  pluck  me  !  "  It  was  com- 
ical, sure !  She  had  on  the  pink  calico  he  had 
already  wished  to  tell  her  became  her  well,  and 
she  wore  those  odious  straw  cuffs  to  keep  her 
sleeves  clean,  and  a  large  white  apron  with  deep 
pockets.  Usually  he  saw  only  her  serious,  offi- 
cial face  through  the  post-office  window,  and 
he  rarely  had  opportunity  for  so  leisurely  a  con- 
templation of  her  ever-hurrying  person.  Now, 
no  doubt,  she  was  in  a  great  hurry  and  was 
being  detained  by  the  tall  young  woman  he 
did  not  know,  for  she  carried  a  large  and  bril- 

38 


THE   CUKL   ON  THE   LIPS   OF  HER 

liant  can  of  tomatoes,  and  she  was  headed  up 
the  street  for  home.  He  was  just  beginning  to 
grow  quite  aware  of  the  detaining  person  when 
she  let  Prunella  go,  and  vanished  herself  around 
the  corner  of  the  town  hall.  As  he  set  himself 
to  relighting  his  bogwood,  he  was  thinking  of 
the  nice,  tanned  look  of  her  neck  and  cheek 
between  her  white  gown  and  her  Panama. 

"  That  you  might  pluck  me,  passing  by  so  cold, 
And  sun  and  —  " 

There  were  steps  in  the  corridor,  not  a  man's 
steps.  Could  it  be  Mrs.  Clabby  come  so  early 
about  the  intrusions  of  Mrs.  Rimooski's  chick- 
ens into  her  tomato  patch? 

"  Please,  is  Mr.  Joyce  in  ?  "  said  a  new  and 
hesitating  voice  at  the  door. 

He  sprang  to  his  feet,  his  hand  to  his  hatless 
head  for  a  salute,  his  pipe  back  into  his  pocket. 

"  He  is  in,  indeed!  "  he  cried,  flushing  from 
his  square  chin  up  over  the  freckled  bridge  of 
his  nose  right  into  his  roughened  hair.  And  it 
took  a  good  deal  of  a  shock  for  a  heart  to  pump 
such  a  flush  into  so  big  and  strong  a  fellow. 

She  came  a  step  across  the  threshold,  clutch- 
ing tight  a  very  grand  little  green  morocco  bag 
that  had  been  one  of  her  graduation  presents. 

39 


THE   INVADERS 


"Will  you  tell  him,  please,  that  I  wish  to 
speak  to  him  ?  "  she  said.  "  Here  is  my  card." 
And  she  held  it  forth  formally  in  a  white-gloved 
hand. 

"  But  —  but  I  am  Mr.  Joyce,"  he  hesitated, 
buttoning  his  coat.  "And  whatever  you  will 
be  wishing  to  say,  very  gladly  will  I  hear." 

If  he  had  studied  women  as  he  had  studied 
the  musty  volumes  in  the  old  university  library 
in  Dublin,  he  would  have  felt  her  mood  to  be 
a  very  haughty  one,  and  the  little  shadow 
under  her  eyes  and  the  red  spot  on  each  cheek 
to  mean  that  this  was  the  greatest  effort  of  her 
life,  and  the  most  hateful.  But  being  only 
a  beginner  in  the  lore  of  womankind,  he 
could  read  nothing,  and  he  did  nothing  but 
push  towards  her  a  chair  and  cast  about  in  his 
thought  for  words  that  did  not  have  so  much 
of  the  brogue.  She  lifted  her  fine,  dark  brows. 
"Surely,  you  —  you  are  not  the  President  of 
the  Board  of  Selectmen,"  she  said,  a  little  scorn- 
fully. 

"  My  word,  no  !  You  will  be  wanting  my 
uncle,  Michael  Joyce.  It  is  in  Boston  he  is.  And 
I  am  his  clerk,  minding  the  place  till  he  is  com- 
ing home  again." 

"Oh!  "  she  said  coldly.  "Then  it  is  hardly 
40 


THE   CURL   ON  THE  LIPS   OF  HER 

worth  while.  Will  he  be  away  long,  do  you 
think  ?  "  Cold  as  she  seemed,  she  had  caught 
his  fashion  of  saying  "  clark  "  for  "  clerk,"  and 
she  was  seeing  the  strange  old  silver  ring  that 
he  wore  on  the  hand  that  offered  the  chair. 

"  It  is  of  that  I  am  not  at  all  certain,  when 
he  will  be  coming  back,"  he  said.  "  It  is  for  a 
ship  that  he  is  waiting.  She  will  be  bringing 
young  men  for  the  fields,  and  already  she  is  late 
because  of  the  gales.  But "  —  he  hesitated,  and 
looking  up,  met  her  eyes  squarely  —  "  but  could 
I  not  be  helping  you  ?  It  is  much  of  the  busi- 
ness of  the  town  that  I  mind  for  my  uncle." 

She  sat  down  in  the  chair  he  offered.  "  Per- 
haps—  perhaps  I  might  tell  you  what  it  is," 
she  said,  her  face  grown  even  more  proud,  more 
grave.  "It  is  very  important  and  I  am  very 
late.  And  then,  as  soon  as  your  uncle  comes, 
you  could  tell  him  —  and  it  would  save  time." 

Three  o'clock  rang  out  from  the  meeting- 
house spire  high  among  the  elms. 

"  Why  not ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  It  is  what  will 
be  best  to  do,  to  tell  me  and  I  will  write  it  all 
down  and  give  it  at  once  to  my  uncle."  And  he 
threw  back  the  roll-top  desk  and  stood  leaning 
upon  it.  For  the  life  of  him  he  could  not  guess 
what  she  wanted  of  his  uncle,  this  very  royal 

41 


THE   INVADERS 


young  woman  with  the  little  frown  between  her 
eyes.  Again  she  was  handing  him  her  card.  "In 
anything  —  whatever  —  I  will  be  glad  to  serve 
you,  Miss  Ladd,"  he  added  slowly.  Now  he  was 
remembering  and  recollecting.  It  was  the  Ladd 
farm  on  which  his  uncle  held  the  big  mortgage. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said  formally.  "  I  have 
come  to  apply  for  the  North  Fernfield  District 
School  for  next  fall.  Miss  Loomis,  my  friend, 
tells  me  that  the  present  teacher  has  resigned  to 
go  to  the  city." 

He  dropped  into  the  big  revolving  chair  at 
the  desk,  and,  reaching  to  a  pigeonhole,  drew 
out  a  file  of  application  blanks.  "  It  is  what  you 
must  do,  to  fill  out  these  questions,"  he  ex- 
plained, drawing  out  a  leaf  of  the  desk  in  front 
of  her  and  handing  her  his  fountain  pen. 

She  was  taking  off  her  gloves  in  the  most 
businesslike  fashion,  and  bending  over  the  blank 
he  had  spread  before  her.  And  as  she  read,  he 
sat  looking  at  the  top  of  her  Panama  and  then 
furtively  at  her  slim,  sunburned  hands,  and  her 
lashes  on  her  hot  cheeks.  In  the  back  part  of 
his  mind,  the  apple-blossom  song  was  still  sing- 
ing itself. 

"  Or  would  I  were  —  " 


42 


THE  CUEL  ON  THE  LIPS  OF  HER 

She  began  to  write.  Joyce  went  to  the  win- 
dow and  stood  looking  out.  He  was  thinking 
that  she  was  too  amazingly  good-looking  not  to 
be  as  haughty  as  a  queen.  At  any  rate,  she  had 
relaxed  a  little.  And  of  course  now  he  knew 
very  well  who  she  was.  She  was  the  daughter 
of  that  cold,  proud  widow  with  the  big  farm 
and  the  fine  old  house,  on  which  his  uncle  held 
so  heavy  a  mortgage.  No  wonder  she  was  cold ! 
And  small  wonder  if  she  hated  him  and  his 
uncle.  But  she  was  a  plucky  one !  And  the  curl 
on  the  lips  of  her  ! 

"  Are  there  many  trying  for  the  place  ?  "  she 
asked  presently,  handing  him  the  pen  without 
looking  at  him. 

"  It  is  what  I  have  quite  forgotten,  just  how 
many,"  he  hesitated.  "But  I  will  see.  These 
two  days  since  I  am  minding  the  place,  not  so 
many  have  been  coming."  And  he  reached  into 
another  pigeonhole  and  drew  out  a  fat  pile  of 
blanks  in  a  rubber.  "It  is  a  good  many,  is  it 
not  ?  "  he  said.  "  Almost  all  the  young  ladies 
in  the  valley  seem  to  be  thinking  they  can  teach 
school.  And  to  me  it  seems  a  very  hard  thing, 
to  teach  school." 

She  had  risen  and  was  drawing  on  her  gloves. 

"  Of  course,"  she  said,  "  I  have  only  the 
43 


THE   INVADERS 


ghost  of  a  chance  —  because  —  because  —  I 
have  n't  any — any  pull.  It 's  all  pull,  they  say." 
She  lifted  her  brows  a  little  disdainfully  and 
snapped  her  glove  together.  Prunella  had  told 
her  it  was  all  pull. 

"  I  do  not  at  all  know  how  it  is  decided,"  he 
explained,  looking  up  from  her  application. 
"  You  see,  I  am  not  long  in  this  country  — 
only  since  January  —  and  it  is  not  yet  quite  a 
year  since  I  myself  am  out  of  the  university." 

She  gave  him  a  long,  wholly  curious  glance. 
"  You  !  "  she  said.  "  What  university  ?  " 

"  Dublin.  And  it 's  not  much  for  looks  com- 
pared to  your  fine  millionaire  universities  here. 
But  God  bless  it,  just  the  same! " 

She  snapped  her  other  glove  together.  The 
red  spots  glowed  in  her  cheeks.  "  Here  in  the 
valley,"  she  said  slowly,  "  getting  a  position 
is  n't  at  all  a  matter  of  university  training  or 
even  of  qualification.  It 's  wholly  a  matter  —  of 
—  of  nationality.  I  have  very  little  chance,  you 
see  !  Thank  you,  though,  for  the  trouble." 

He  had  flushed  hotly  as  he  followed  her 
words,  and  had  ready  no  answer  whatever  when 
she  turned  and  went  down  the  corridor,  leaving 
him  bowing  at  the  desk. 

Into  the  light  ring  of  her  footsteps  came  a 
44 


THE   CUEL  ON  THE  LIPS   OF  HER 

heavier  tread.  He  did  not  heed  it,  so  hard  was 
he  thinking  of  her  taunt. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Joyce,  ain't  your  uncle  back 
yet?"  Mrs.  Clabby  exclaimed  asthmatically. 
"  Seems  like  we  've  got  enough  foreigners  in 
this  valley  without  him  having  to  go  to  Boston 
to  welcome  more.  What's  Livvy  Ladd  been 
here  about?  Polander  chickens  been  running 
in  her  mignonette  beds  ?  " 

Joyce  offered  her  a  chair.  "It  is  another 
nationality  that  will  be  troubling  Miss  Ladd," 
he  said,  with  a  little  smile.  "  And  now  about 
Mrs.  Rimooski  ?  " 


CHAPTER  V 

SWEETHEAKTING 

.wins.  LADD'S  delicately  withered  face,  in  its 
frame  of  honeysuckle  trellis,  smiled  up  the 
street  as  Olivia  came  swinging  along  the  path. 
The  smile  was  there  to  meet  and  dispel  the  bit- 
terness of  the  afternoon's  experience,  and  as 
well  to  prepare  the  child  for  another  that  pro- 
mised as  much  bitterness,  though  of  a  different 
kind.  She  pushed  open  the  sagging  iron  gate 
and  stepped  out.  Olivia  waved  her  hand.  Her 
figure  was  her  best  point,  after  all,  her  mother 
was  thinking,  though  her  hair  was  nice  too  — 
her  father's  hair,  dry,  dull  gold. 

"  I  Ve  done  it !  "  she  called  gayly.  "  Filled 
out  a  blank  with  a  long  list  of  my  accomplish- 
ments." And  she  caught  up  to  her  mother  and 
put  an  arm  around  her  waist. 

"  You  can  get  it,  you  think  ?  " 

"  Get  it ! "  Olivia  laughed.  "  I  've  just  about 
one  one-hundredth  of  a  chance.  A  great  pile 
of  applications,  all  Irish.  Reduce  one  chance  in 
a  hundred  to  its  lowest  terms.  That 's  mine, 
Mamma." 

46 


SWEETHEARTING 


"  Of  course !  What  else  could  we  expect,  even 
if  your  grandfather  did  establish  that  school ! 
But  who  knows!"  And  she  looked  up  at 
Olivia's  sparkle  and  color  as  they  turned  in  the 
gate  and  up  the  flagged  path  between  the  irises 
and  the  smoke-bushes. 

"And  then,"  the  girl  went  on  gayly,  "I 
spoiled  even  my  fraction  of  a  chance.  I  was 
rude  —  but  I  told  the  truth,  Mamma.  And  it 
did  me  a  lot  of  good." 

"  Olivia  !  Not  rude,  my  dear !  And  to  an  in- 
ferior !  You  saw  him  —  that  Mr.  Joyce  ?  Not 
rude  to  him !  " 

Olivia  laughed  again,  and  dropped  on  the 
bench  in  the  syringa  crescent  halfway  up  to 
the  house.  "Not  exactly  to  him,"  she  said. 
"  But  to  an  odious,  self-satisfied,  irreproachable 
young  man  who  said  he  was  Mr.  Michael  Joyce's 
nephew  and  'clark,'  and  that  he  '  minded  the 
place*  in  his  uncle's  absence.  Think  of  it, 
Mamma  !  Think  of  '  minding  the  place'  in  our 
dear  old  town  hall !  Lovely,  is  n't  it !  "  And  she 
threw  her  hat  and  smart  gloves  on  the  grass. 
"  Sit  down,  Mamma  !  Do  !  Is  n't  this  syringa 
deliciousness ! " 

"Was  he  impertinent,  dear — or  familiar?  I 
should  not  have  let  — ' 

47 


THE   INVADERS 


"  Oh,  niver  a  bit  of  it,  sure  !  And  he  vol- 
unteered the  information  that  he  was  a  univers- 
ity man  —  Dublin,  where  Goldsmith  and  Burke 
and  that  crowd  went.  Imagine  it,  Mamma!  " 

"  But  to  be  rude,  Olivia !  And  to  a  young 
man,  an  inferior  at  that !  " 

"  Why,  it  was  this  way,  you  see.  I  filled  the 
blank  as  he  told  me  to  do  —  and  then  —  then  I 
just  told  him  the  truth  —  that  I  knew  perfectly 
well  that  I  had  n't  the  ghost  of  a  chance  —  that 
here  in  the  valley  it 's  all  pull  —  and  Irish  pull 
at  that.  Prunella  told  me  so.  Don't  look  so 
horrified !  I  'm  glad  I  did,  Mamma  !  " 

"  Olivia  !  In  those  words  !  And  those  are  just 
the  very  people  that  we  can't  afford  to  offend, 
you  and  I.  Was  he  angry  ?  What  did  he  do?  " 

"  Nothing,  absolutely,  except  to  fold  my  ap- 
plication blank  very  exactly,  and  then  snap  it 
under  the  rubber  band.  And  then  when  I  fin- 
ished, he  bowed  and  —  and  he  had  colored.  At 
any  rate,  it 's  done,  and  it  '11  do  them  good  to 
know  that  we  know  their  tricky  ways." 

"  But,  my  dear,  even  if  we  admit  that  we 
know,  we  condescend.  We  of  another  race  and 
class,  we  are  n't  to  know  or  to  understand  such 
methods.  I  shouldn't  have  exposed  —  " 

"  Oh,  it  was  all  quite  safe.  And  he  was  n't 
48 


SWEETHEARTING 


really  half  bad !  Besides,  it  was  an  adventure. 
I  must  write  Betty  Preston  about  it.  She  '11 
think  it  rich."  And  she  laughed  again,  and 
leaning  back,  pulled  down  a  long  spray  of 
syringa  and  sniffed  the  blossoms.  "  Now  let  me 
get  you  a  chair.  This  bench  is  n't  comfortable. 
And  let 's  camp  here  and  I  '11  read  you  the  class 
poem." 

"  I  wish  we  might,"  her  mother  said  uncer- 
tainly, "  but  there  's  another  —  another  adven- 
ture waiting  for  you.  Major  Welling  has  sent 
for  you.  That  Stefan  Posadowski  stopped 
here  this  afternoon  with  the  message.  He  's  the 
nephew  of  the  man  that 's  living  at  the  Welling 
place." 

The  syringa  spray  sprang  back  and  left  Oli- 
via's cheeks  some  of  its  whiteness. 

"  For  me  ?  Why  ?  What  for  ?  Why  doesn't 
the  Major  come  here?" 

"  I  know  nothing,  dear,  except  what  the 
young  man  said,  in  his  broken  English  —  that 
the  Major  was  ill  and  begged  that  you  would 
come.  It 's  too  bad  —  just  now." 

"  The  poor  dear  old  Major !  Shall  I  go, 
Mamma  ?  Do  I  have  to  ?  I  've  always  been  such 
friends  with  the  Major.  But  ought  I  to  now, 
Mamma  ?  Is  it  best  to  ?  "  Her  chin  was  in  her 

49 


palm,  her  elbow  on  her  knee,  and  she  was  frown- 
ing at  the  blue  periwinkles  under  the  syringa 
bushes.  Mrs.  Ladd  had  risen  and  turned  towards 
the  house. 

"  Yes,  you  ought  to,  Olivia,"  she  said  slowly. 
"  I  took  a  liberty.  I  told  him  to  say  you  would 
come  this  afternoon.  It  may  be  too  late  if  you 
wait.  There  have  been  other  shocks."  She 
started  on,  then  came  back.  "  After  a  while  — 
you  '11  see  that  it  has  been  best  to  go  even  now. 
We  owe  it  to  the  Major.  I  '11  get  you  a  sun- 
shade. It 's  hot  through  those  onion  fields." 

"  A  good  —  good  deal  —  is  —  is  happening, 
Mamma !  "  she  stammered ;  and  then  hid  her 
face  in  her  arms  on  the  back  of  the  bench  and 
burst  into  a  storm  of  tears. 

"  A  good  deal,  dear !  I  'm  so  sorry  !  I  've  tried 
to  hold  it  off,"  her  mother  said,  and  then  went 
lingeringly  towards  the  house. 

On  and  on  she  sobbed  in  the  fragrant  quiet 
of  the  syringa  crescent,  wildly,  despairingly.  A 
little  breeze  from  the  west  sprang  up  and  cooled 
the  back  of  her  neck,  but  her  cheeks  burned 
and  her  sleeves  were  wet  with  hot  tears.  Not  once 
had  she  given  way  till  now,  not  once  since  last 
night's  revelations.  The  mortgage,  the  suicide, 

50 


SWEETHEARTING 


not  a  tear.  All  night  she  had  lain  wide  awake, 
dry-eyed,  hot-cheeked,  planning,  planning,  re- 
membering that  Prunella  that  very  afternoon 
had  told  of  the  vacancy  in  the  district  school, 
then  planning,  planning  to  get  the  school  at 
once,  to  run  the  farm,  to  pay  off  the  mortgage. 
She  would  do  it.  She  could  do  it.  And  Dacre 
was  done  with  and  out  of  her  life.  The  old 
foolish  boy-and-girl  love  was  dead  and  done 
with  for  her.  Now  it  was  work  and  care  and 
life  —  real  life  !  And  to  give  her  mother  some 
peace  and  joy  after  the  long  years  in  which  she 
had  kept  the  secret.  So  the  night  had  taught 
Olivia,  and  the  morning  had  sent  her,  quickly 
bathed  and  dressed,  down  to  the  kitchen  to  get 
breakfast.  That  was  the  practical  beginning  of 
the  new  life  —  coffee  and  toast  and  boiled  eggs, 
and  a  heavy-eyed,  surprised  mother  in  the  fra- 
grant morning  airiness  of  the  dining-room. 
Then  had  come  unpacking,  straightening,  set- 
tling of  college  belongings  in  home  quarters  — 
piles  of  notebooks  and  textbooks  in  new  com- 
panionship with  the  old  half -calf  in  her  father's 
library.  And  all  the  while  there  had  been  much 
brave,  merry  talk  of  securing  the  district  school 
—  how  she  would  cram  those  youngsters  !  — 
and  much  to  do  laughing  away  Mrs.  Ladd's  bit- 

51 


THE  INVADERS 


terness.  Then  had  come  the  faring  forth  to  ask 
Prunella  where  to  apply,  and  then  the  break 
into  Mr.  Patrick  Joyce's  apple-blossom  song  and 
his  meditations  upon  the  culture  of  onions.  All 
this  —  it  seemed  a  lifetime  since  college  —  and 
no  giving  way  till  now  in  the  syringa  crescent, 
when  the  old  Major's  message  and  the  thought 
of  Dacre's  immanence  set  free  torrents  of  tears. 

A  catbird  swung  on  the  pine  tree  calling 
shrilly.  For  a  moment,  a  cloud  covered  the  sun. 
Olivia  lifted  her  hot,  wet  face  and  pushed  the 
combs  into  her  loosened  hair.  Mrs.  Ladd  was 
coming  down  the  porch  steps  with  a  green-lined 
pongee  umbrella  and  a  tinkling  glass  of  cold 
milk.  The  umbrella  was  one  that  had  come  home 
with  her  boy's  things  from  Arizona. 

"  I  let  you  cry ;  you  needed  it,"  she  said. 
"It's  the  best  thing  you  could  have  done.  And 
to  cry  is  no  sign  of  lack  of  courage.  It 's  quite 
physical  —  just  like  coughing  or  sneezing.  It 's 
a  comfort  to  remember  that  when  one  is  really 
brave.  And  this  milk  will  cool  you.  The  cow 
has  been  eating  the  orchard  clover." 

And  presently,  cooled,  deeply  quieted,  and 
infinitely  saddened  and  wearied,  Olivia  went  out 
again  through  the  sagging  gate  under  the 
honeysuckles,  crossed  the  grassy  street,  and 

52 


SWEETHEARTING 


took  the  dusty  path  across  the  onion  fields. 
Right  and  left  they  stretched,  hot  and  shim- 
mering, their  pale-green  level  broken  only  with 
the  crawling  weeders  astride  the  rows.  Scarlet 
and  blue  flared  the  dresses  of  the  women,  as  they 
worked  or  stopped  to  suckle  the  babies  spend- 
ing the  day  afield  in  the  baby  carriages,  tended 
only  by  those  too  old  or  too  young  to  weed. 
Miles  upon  miles  of  it  to  right  and  left  —  green 
shimmer  and  crouching  figures.  Then  the  brown 
and  green  of  newly  set  tobacco  fields,  the  long 
arklike  tobacco  barns  ;  then  the  far  hills  hazy 
in  the  afternoon  heat.  Beyond  the  river,  above 
the  western  hills,  great  cumulus  clouds  were 
piling  up  purplish  mountains,  and  a  hot  wind 
rimpled  the  onion  fields  into  shallow  green  seas. 
Olivia  went  on  swiftly  under  the  pongee  um- 
brella, sometimes  through  clouds  of  aimless  yel- 
low butterflies.  For  a  mile  ahead  of  her,  the 
road  ran  straight  and  level  and  glaring  among 
the  onions ;  then  dipped  into  the  low  fields  that 
the  river  was  eating  away  ;  then  rose  again  into 
the  greenness  of  Major  Welling's  orchard  and 
garden,  with  the  high  old  chimneys  and  worn 
shingles  among  the  elms  and  pines  on  the  river- 
bank.  Very  swiftly,  indeed,  Olivia  was  going 
along,  in  spite  of  the  heat,  saying  over  and  over 

53 


THE  INVADERS 


to  herself,  "  What  shall  I  do  if  he  is  there ! 
What  shall  I  do  if  his  eyes  pain  me  as  they  did 
three  weeks  ago  !  And  if  he  should  beg  !  And 
what  is  it  that  the  poor  dear  old  Major  wants? 
Is  he  going  to  scold  me  because  I  have  hurt  his 
boy  ?  What  shall  I  do  if  he  is  there !  It  is  ter- 
rible to  be  so  sorry !  One  cannot  be  sensible 
when  one  is  so  sorry !  Oh,  I  wish  that  we  were 
little  children  —  little  tiny,  wee  bits  of  children, 
Dacre  and  I !  " 

She  did  smile  wanly  at  a  beady-eyed,  black- 
haired  Polish  baby  that  pulled  back  from  its 
mother's  full  breast  and  looked  at  her  as  she 
passed.  The  baby  kicked  and  crowed  and  then 
fell  to  tugging  again,  and  the  mother  laughed 
and  looked  at  Olivia  and  pressed  the  little  head 
close  to  her  bosom.  "If  he  should  dare  to  kiss 
me  again,  what  should  I  do  !  "  Olivia  was  think- 
ing as  she  smiled  back. 

When  she  dipped  into  the  low  grounds  among 
more  yellow  butterflies,  and  climbed  the  slope 
to  the  orchard  gate,  great  cloud  shadows  were 
beginning  to  float  over  the  fields.  The  old 
gray  house  in  its  old  trees  lay  quite  in  shadow, 
and  the  poplars  along  the  river  showed  white. 
Then  on  she  went,  over  the  familiar  stile  on 
the  orchard  wall,  through  the  tall  seeding  grass 

54 


SWEETHEAKTING 


and  the  clover,  under  the  gnarled  and  knotted 
trees.  There  was  the  Baldwin  tree  where  she 
and  Dacre  had  had  their  seats  and  read  the 
fairy-books.  In  that  Greening  tree  they  had 
found  the  oriole's  nest.  Then  she  came  to  the 
currant  bushes  and  the  raspberries  and  black- 
berries that  edged  the  garden,  all  rank  and 
overgrown  against  the  rotting  fence ;  then  made 
her  way  through  what  had  been  the  kitchen 
garden,  now  weeds  and  lawless  rhubarb  and 
horseradish. 

In  the  back  yard,  under  the  Bartlett  pear 
tree  by  the  well,  a  Polish  woman  sat,  sewing 
large  patches  on  a  red  shirt.  Behind  her  there 
were  the  gray  roofs,  the  many-paned  windows, 
and  under  the  trees  the  gray  shine  of  the  river. 

"  Oh,  I  be  much  glad  you  come  !  "  she  cried 
at  sight  of  Olivia.  "  Our  boy  Stefan,  he  say 
you  come.  He  so  sick,  ze  ole  man.  I  not  work 
thiz  day  in  my  man's  field,  ze  ole  man  so  sick." 
Her  heavy  face  had  grown  suddenly  gentle. 
"He  glad  to  see  you.  I  show  you." 

"  I  know  the  way  quite  well,"  Olivia  was  be- 
ginning, then  stopped  and  said  pleadingly, "  Oh, 
do,  please ! "  A  faint  odor  of  cigarettes  had 
blown  to  her. 

"  He  so  sick  he  not  spick  much,  ze  ole  man. 
55 


THE  INVADERS 


He  not  get  well  zis  time,  Doctor  say,"  the 
woman  was  going  on  softly,  as  they  went  round 
the  house,  past  the  lily  bed  and  the  ragged  lilacs 
and  the  great  tangled  wistaria  that  fell  in  pur- 
ple and  white  cascades  from  cornice  to  ground. 
In  the  uncut  grass,  the  roses  rioted  at  will,  and 
the  long-neglected  woodbine  and  coral  honey- 
suckle almost  hid  the  tottering  summerhouse 
on  the  bank  above  the  river. 

The  Polander  stopped  on  the  flagstone  at 
the  front  door,  and  motioned  towards  wistaria 
and  summerhouse  and  river.  "  All  so  sweet ! 
All  so  sweet !  "  she  said  softly.  "  I  no  change 
it.  Our  Stefan,  he  love  all  what  is  pretty.  An' 
ze  ole  man  he  love  it  so.  To  die  is  hard  when 
all  so  pretty." 

Her  last  words,  soft  as  they  were,  made  almost 
an  echo  in  the  great  bare  hall,  with  the  gra- 
cious stairway  that  seemed  curving  up  into 
further  loneliness. 

"He  in  ze  war-room,"  she  whispered.  "He 
not  want  to  die  upstairs." 

She  stopped  at  the  familiar  door,  listening. 
The  parlor  doors  were  closed.  Olivia  stopped 
too,  breathless,  with  flaming  cheeks.  Down  the 
stairs,  with  wagging  tail  and  a  little  whine,  flew 
Ben,  Dacre's  Gordon  setter,  and  licked  her 

56 


SWEETHEARTING 


hands  and  sniffed  her  skirts  joyously.  Every- 
where there  was  the  wistaria  sweetness  and  in 
it  the  faint  fragrance  of  cigarettes.  On  the  hat- 
rack  hung  a  white  sweater,  a  Panama  with  a 
blue  band,  and  the  Major's  gold-corded  veteran's 
hat.  It  was  quite  still  except  for  the  wind  in 
the  pines  and  the  far  rumble  of  thunder. 

The  Polish  woman  opened  the  door  and 
peeped  into  the  room.  "  He  all  right.  He  mek 
a  little  sleep.  You  go  in,"  she  whispered. 

Olivia  went  softly  across  the  threshold.  The 
familiar  room  cut  her  with  its  usualness  —  the 
windows  looking  across  the  river  to  the  hills, 
the  walls  covered  with  maps  of  the  battlefields 
and  the  pictures  of  generals,  and  with  swords 
and  rifles  and  other  army  belongings.  There, 
opposite  the  door,  resplendent  as  ever,  hung  the 
portrait  of  the  Major  as  first  lieutenant,  brave 
and  gallant  and  smiling.  In  the  old  Academy 
days,  when  she  and  Dacre  were  sweethearts,  and 
there  were  school  frolics,  what  brave  story-tell- 
ing of  heroes  there  was  in  the  war-room ! 

In  the  armchair  by  the  empty  fireplace,  with 
an  army  blanket  over  his  knees,  dozing,  with 
hanging  head,  sat  the  Major.  His  face  was 
white  and  drawn,  and  his  shriveled  hands  lay 
limply  in  his  lap. 

57 


THE   INVADERS 


"Major!  Major  Welling!"  Olivia  said  gently. 
"  I  'm  so  glad  to  see  you.  You  were  good  to 
send  for  me." 

He  opened  his  eyes  heavily  with  a  feeble 
smile.  "That  you,  Mary  Ladd?"  he  whispered 
weakly,  trying  to  rise  and  then  falling  back. 
"  That  husband  of  yours  with  you  ?  It 's  a  cold 
day." 

"  Oh,  don't  try  to  get  up,  Major !  "  Olivia 
cried.  "  It 's  only  I,  Olivia.  It 's  not  Mamma. 
It 's  only  I."  And  she  knelt  at  his  side  and  put 
her  warm  hand  on  his  chill  ones. 

Her  touch  seemed  to  rouse  him.  "  Of  course ! 
Why — why,  I  must  have  been  dozing.  I 
thought  it  was  your  mother  and  —  and  —  your 
father.  We  're  pretty  near  run  out  —  the  old 
place  and  I."  And  again  he  smiled  faintly  and 
stared  at  the  empty  fireplace. 

"  And  was  there  something  you  wanted  me 
to  do  for  you,  Major  ?  "  Olivia  went  on  softly, 
stroking  his  hand  and  watching  his  pale  face 
fearfully. 

r  Suddenly  he  drew  a  sharp  breath  and,  pulling 
himself  erect  in  his  chair,  faced  her.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  she  should  freeze  with  the  cold  blue- 
ness  of  his  eyes. 

"  Do  ! "  he  muttered  hoarsely.    "  Do  !   For 
58 


SWEETHEARTING 


God's  sake,  stop  doing !  Let  the  boy  alone ! 
Don't  —  don't  make  a  damned  fool  of  him. 
Your  father  —  your  father  ruined  his  father. 
One  generation  is  enough,  by  God !  Let  him 
alone,  or  else  make  a  man  of  him.  Don't  make 
a  fool  of  him  and  —  tell  him  he  can  paint. 
Make  a  man  of  him,  if  you  can,  or  by  —  "  He 
fell  back  in  his  chair,  gasping,  his  limp  hands 
fumbling  in  his  lap. 

For  a  black  minute,  Olivia  sat  staring  at  the 
ashes  on  the  hearth,  her  head  against  the  old 
blanket  on  his  knee.  Then  out  of  what  seemed 
to  her  depths  of  terror,  she  found  herself  run- 
ning from  the  room,  out  through  the  gray, 
•windy  hall,  past  the  closed  doors,  round  the 
house  by  the  ragged  lilacs. 

The  Polish  woman  was  carrying  a  dripping 
bucket  from  the  well. 

"  Go  to  him,  quick  !  He  is  very  ill !  "  Olivia 
cried.  "  Quick  !  Perhaps  he  will  die." 

Then  on  she  ran,  through  the  garden,  against 
the  rising  wind,  sobbing  without  tears.  "  I  am 
not  brave  any  more.  I  am  a  coward  not  to  stay 
and  take  care  of  him,"  she  was  crying  to  her- 
self. "But  he  was  so  terrible — and  what  he 
said  is  so  terrible  !  " 

In  the  orchard  a  big  drop  of  rain  splashed 
59 


THE  INVADERS 


her  face.  The  storm  was  almost  upon  her.  But 
at  the  stile  over  the  orchard  wall,  she  paused  for 
breath  and  dropped  on  the  lower  step  and  rested 
her  head  on  the  stone.  It  was  good,  the  storm 
outside,  to  quiet  the  storm  within.  Another  big 
drop  splashed  coolly  on  her  cheek.  "  Make  a 
man  of  him,  if  you  can.  Your  father  ruined 
his  father.  One  generation  is  enough,"  she  kept 
hearing  above  the  throbbing  of  her  heart.  Sud- 
denly, something  flashed  sharp  into  the  dark  of 
her  thought.  Her  cheeks  glowed  hot.  She  drew 
a  long  breath  and  lifted  her  face  for  more  cool 
drops. 

"Now  —  now  I  must  be  his  !  And  he  must 
be  —  be  mine  !  He  is  the  atonement !  "  she  was 
swiftly  realizing.  "  I  owe  it  to  him  —  for  my 
father's  sake.  The  old  love  has  meant  just  this! 
I  will  love  him  always  and  that  will  make  a  man 
of  him.  And  I  —  I  will  be  brave  like  Mamma 
and  keep  the  secret." 

And  presently,  when  she  heard  him  back  in 
the  garden  calling  to  her,  and  knew  that  he  was 
running  to  overtake  her,  she  did  not  try  to  es- 
cape, as  she  had  planned  she  would  do.  She 
was  no  longer  afraid  except  that  her  heart 
would  stifle  her  with  its  beating. 

He  came  flying  through  the  long  grass,  call- 
60 


SWEETHEARTING 


ing  softly  to  her.  She  kept  her  face  close  in  her 
hands,  but  she  knew  well  how  the  apple  boughs 
brushed  his  crinkled,  tawny  hair,  he  was  so  tall, 
and  she  felt  without  seeing  the  light  in  his  lazy 
eyes. 

"  You,  Olivia !  You,  darling !  I  did  n't  know 
you  'd  come  till  you  'd  gone.  I  was  in  the  stu- 
dio painting.  That  chump  of  a  woman  told  me. 
Sweetheart !  Sweetheart !  You  see,  it  had  to 
be!" 

And  when  he  knelt  at  her  side  and  put  his 
arms  around  her,  she  let  him  draw  her  close 
and  kiss  her  eyes,  her  hair,  her  neck. 

"  You  see  it  differently,  don't  you,  sweet, 
now  that  you  're  back  and  we  are  n't  together 
as  we  've  always  been  ?  "  he  was  murmuring 
close  to  her  ear.  "  We  just  must  be  together  — 
always.  And  it 's  like  old  boy  and  girl  times, 
your  coming  to  see  Grandfather.  And  it 's  go- 
ing to  be  like  old  times,  always,  is  n't  it,  dar- 
ling —  only  better  ?  "  And  she  let  him  lift  her 
chin  and  look  into  the  very  depths  of  her  clear 
eyes,  and  kiss  her  lips  long,  throbbingly. 

"  Now  you  '11  come  back  till  the  storm  's  over, 
and  then  I  '11  hitch  —  "  he  was  going  on. 

But  she  drew  away  and  got  up  quickly.  "  Oh, 
no ! "  she  said  breathlessly.  "  I  cannot  go  back. 

61 


THE   INVADERS 


But  you  must  go  back  at  once  to  the  poor  sick  old 
man.  He  is  so  fearfully  ill.  I  will  run  home  and 
send  the  doctor.  It  is  not  far  and  I  do  not  mind 
the  rain." 

"  Oh,  Grandfather  will  be  all  right.    Mrs. 

7  O 

Wieniaski  knows  how  to  manage  him.  He 's 
been  that  way  twice  before  and  got  all  right. 
And  you  do  see  differently,  darling  ?  I  can't  be 
anything  without  you.  You  see  differently  — 
sure?" 

She  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders  and  gave 
him  a  long  look.  She  need  n't  be  afraid  of  him 
any  more,  this  great,  beautiful,  boyish  sweet- 
heart of  hers.  He  was  the  atonement  for  the 
other  generation.  And  she,  too,  could  keep  her 
secret. 

"  Oh,  yes ! "  she  said,  with  a  quick  breath. 
"  I  see  quite  differently.  You  can  be  very  sure, 
dear.  It  is  right  that  I  shall  be  —  be  all  yours 
—  if  I  can  make  a  man  of  you.  I  must  not  be 
yours  unless  I  can  make  a  great  man  of  you." 

"  Darling,  you  can  make  anything  of  me  — 
if  you  will  love  me,"  he  murmured.  "  And  now 
I  will  go  home  with  you  and  —  " 

She  gave  him  a  little  push  and  drew  away. 

"  Oh,  no,  no !  You  must  go  back  to  him 
quickly,"  she  cried.  "And  remember  that  it 

62 


SWEETHEAKTING 


is  a  secret  from  every  one — above  all,  from 
Mamma  —  until  I  —  I  have  succeeded.  Yes, 
yes  !  Just  once  more !  "  And  again  she  felt 
his  passionate  lips  on  hers.  Then  she  turned 
and  ran  down  the  path  into  the  low  grounds. 
Ahead  of  her,  the  rain  was  already  sweeping 
over  the  wide,  thirsty  fields. 


CHAPTER  VI 

ICING 

DIED  last  night !  What  a  mercy !  "  Miss  Hol- 
lins  exclaimed,  folding  in  the  flour.  It  was  the 
ticklish  point  in  her  sponge  cake,  that  folding 
in.  "  The  Lord  was  kind  to  take  him  before 
things  got  worse." 

"  Worse ! "  Prunella,  in  a  big  blue  kitchen 
apron,  was  shooting  almonds  out  of  their  wet 
brown  skins.  "How  could  they  be  worse?" 
Between  the  ten  o'clock  and  the  noon  mail  she 
had  time  to  be  domestic. 

"  Well,  it  would  be  worse  to  see  Dacre  more 
of  a  failure  than  he  is,  and  the  old  place  gone 
to  those  Polanders."  Miss  Hollins's  pink  cham- 
bray  sleeves  came  only  to  the  elbows  of  her 
finely  shaped,  aristocratic  arms,  and  her  plump 
white  neck  showed  cool  and  comfortable  in  a 
delicate  surplice. 

"  If  Olivia  should  marry  him  now !  I  'm  so 
afraid  she  will.  He  's  crazier  than  ever  about 
her." 

"  God  forbid !  "  Miss  Hollins  said  solemnly, 
pouring  the  foamy  batter  into  the  buttered 

64 


ICING 

tins.  "  This  makes  the  ten  fifteen-cent  sponge- 
cakes, does  n't  it,  Prunella?  It  's  a  wicked 
shame  he 's  so  good-looking.  It 's  an  unfair  ad- 
vantage. But  Olivia  has  judgment.  And  died 
last  night!  Poor  old  Major!  How  happy  he 
was  Memorial  Day !  Little  thought  we  'd  so 
soon  be  decorating  his  grave.  I  've  been  mean- 
ing to  go  out  to  see  him  ever  since  he  had  the 
second  shock." 

"  But  he  would  n't  have  known  you,  Aunt 
Lou.  Dacre  was  in  the  post-office  yesterday 
morning  and  he  said  he  'd  been  in  a  stupor  ever 
since  the  storm  ten  days  ago.  That  was  the 
third  shock,  Dacre  says.  Dacre  keeps  getting 
letters  from  France  and  from  steamship  com- 
panies. Now  I  suppose  he  '11  go  right  away 
unless  —  unless  Olivia  —  " 

"  Mercy !  Don't  talk  about  such  a  thing, 
Prunella.  Olivia  's  got  better  sense,  after  all 
her  college.  But  I  do  take  myself  to  task  that 
I  did  n't  get  out  to  see  him." 

"  But  how  could  you,  Aunt  Lou,  with  extra 
boarders  and  all  these  orders  from  the  Ex- 
change. You  just  could  n't,  that 's  all." 

"Those  almonds  ready,  Prunella?  Yes,  I 
could  have.  These  days,  we  spend  so  much 
time  thinking  how  little  time  we  have,  that  we 

65 


THE  INVADERS 


lose  a  lot.  Two  almond  sponge,  three  cocoa 
sponge,  one  marshmallow  layer,  and  four  plain." 
And  she  counted  the  fragrant  loaves  on  the 
table  by  the  kitchen  window  that  looked  on  the 
rose-patch.  The  rose-patch  was  the  one  merely 
ornamental  part  of  the  little  back  garden. 
The  rest  was  exclusively  devoted  to  Prunella's 
vegetables,  worked  at  between  mail -times. 
Prunella  permitted  herself  and  her  aunt  no 
merely  aesthetic  indulgences.  But  nevertheless, 
the  table  by  the  other  window  was  a  thing  of 
beauty  in  spite  of  Prunella's  severity ;  for  she 
herself  sat  at  the  side  of  it  with  the  breeze 
blowing  the  soft  little  curls  around  her  small 
ears  and  the  heat  of  the  kitchen  deepening  the 
pink  of  her  cheeks.  And  on  the  top  of  the 
table  there  were  many  little  white  and  yellow 
and  blue  bowls  full  of  the  luscious  icings,  all, 
except  the  chocolate,  in  delicate  pastel  shades, 
cocoa,  pistache,  strawberry,  coffee.  Prunella's 
nearest  approach  to  an  aesthetic  gratification 
was  concocting  and  stirring  the  icings  that 
were  the  distinguishing  glory  of  her  aunt's 
cakes  in  the  Wellfield  Woman's  Exchange. 

Miss  Hollins  was  spreading  the  cocoa-icing, 
smoothing  it  back  and  forth  with  sure  strokes. 
"  At  any  rate,  I  '11  go  over  this  afternoon.  Like 

66 


ICING 

as  not,  Mary  Ladd  is  there,  taking  hold.  Hope 
to  mercy  she  is !  There  's  no  one  else,  except 
the  G.  A.  R.  But  there  's  precious  few  veterans 
left  to  manage  the  funeral.  Sticks,  this  icing. 
It 's  the  heat." 

"But  if  Olivia  should  !  "  Prunella  repeated, 
stirring  strawberry.  "  I  'd  almost  hate  her.  Just 
because  you  love  a  man — or  think  you  do  — 
it  does  n't  make  any  difference  what  kind  he 
is  !  I  never  would,  I  know  that !  " 

"  You  don't  know  what  you  'd  do,  Prunella. 
What  time  is  that  striking  ?  Eleven  ?  " 

"  Yes,  eleven.  Well,  you  did  n't,  Aunt  Lou. 
It 's  all  a  matter  of  common —  " 

"  Never  had  a  chance  !  I  don't  know  what  I 
should  have  done  !  Just  as  foolish  things  as  any 
other  woman,  like  as  not !  "  Miss  Hollins  inter- 
rupted, with  a  laugh  and  a  faint  flush  under 
her  delicate  skin.  "  Never  had  a  beau  in  my 
life.  How  could  I  ?  I  had  no  time  for  beaus. 
First  your  grandmother  ill  for  five  years,  then 
your  mother  for  eight,  and  then  —  then  the 
old  place  gone  and  you  to  bring  up  —  bless 
you,  Prunella  —  and — and  not  a  cent  to  buy 
—  buy  hairpins.  But  lots  of  blessings  instead 
of  beaus  ! "  And  as  she  reached  for  the  straw- 
berry, she  kissed  the  girl's  cheek  quickly. 

67 


Prunella  endured  it. 

"Eggs  out,  are  n't  they,  Aunt  Lou?"  she 
said  abruptly.  "  What  '11  you  do  ?  And  the 
week-end  boarders  coming  to-night." 

"  I  know  it.  And  I  've  tried  everywhere  ex- 
cept that  Polish  woman  at  the  Wellings'  —  that 
Mrs.  Wieniaski.  She  usually  has  plenty.  Once 
before  in  a  pinch  I  got  some  there.  I  could  send 
Bobbie  —  " 

"Don't,  please!  Please  don't,  Aunt  Lou. 
Somehow,  eggs  from  Polanders  —  and  from 
those  Polanders  in  the  Major's  place,  it 's  worst 
of  all." 

"  You  're  too  fussy,  Prunella.  And  some- 
times you  actually  sound  sentimental.  They 
are  a  very  decent  lot,  those  Wieniaskis.  Eggs 
are  dirt-proof  anyhow.  And  that  Stefan  's  as 
good-looking  a  fellow  as  there  is  in  town,  ex- 
cept that  young  Irishman.  None  of  our  own 
boys  left  for  comparisons,  except  Dacre,  and 
you  never  know  where  he  is  long  enough  to 
put  your  finger  on  him  to  compare  him." 

Prunella  was  unbuttoning  her  apron.  "  Well, 
I  know  that  I  am  not  sentimental,  of  all  things," 
she  said  decidedly.  "  That  young  Posadowski  is 
—  is  impertinent.  The  other  morning  I  actually 
caught  him  putting  a  bunch  of  wild  flag  on  my 

68 


ICING 

desk.  The  audacity,  Aunt  Lou !  I  threw  them 
into  the  waste-basket.  And  he 's  always  getting 
rolls  of  foreign  music  through  the  mail,  and 
queer-looking  Polish  books.  Such  airs  !  And  if 
he  'd  only  cut  his  —  " 

She  stopped.  There  was  a  knock  at  the  front 
door.  "  I  '11  see,"  she  went  on,  drying  her  hands 
on  the  roller  towel.  "  I  Ve  got  to  go  soon  any- 
how. If  it 's  Mrs.  Clabby,  what  shall  I  do  ?  Say 
you  're  dead  ?  " 

"  Prunella !  Ask  her  in,  of  course.  She 
wouldn't  stay." 

"Would n't  she!" 

But  it  was  not  Mrs.  Clabby.  Miss  Hollins, 
peeping  through  the  crack  of  the  dining-room 
door,  gave  a  sigh  of  relief ;  then  sighed  again 
and  frowned.  That  the  visitor  was  Bride  Joyce 
was  even  more  of  an  interruption  than  if  it  had 
been  Mrs.  Clabby.  It  was  n't  easy  to  welcome 
the  people  who  had  got  possession,  however 
honestly  and  fairly,  of  the  home  of  one's  ances- 
tors. The  Joyces  were  the  only  people  she  had 
permitted  herself  to  avoid  among  all  the  new- 
comers in  the  valley.  Prunella  simply  ignored 
them.  And  yet  it  was  foolish  and  wicked  to  be 
resentful  at  the  girl's  coming,  Miss  Hollins 
was  telling  herself,  still  at  the  crack. 

69 


THE   INVADERS 


Prunella,  as  she  pushed  open  the  screen  door, 
•was  having  a  little  struggle,  too. 

"Oh,  Miss  Joyce!  It's  you!"  she  said. 
"  Won't  you  come  in  ?  " 

"  No,  thank  y' !  I  '11  just  stop  here.  And 
y're  that  busy.  My  brother  says  that  niver  has  he 
seen  so  busy  a  body  as  y'  are."  And  she  smiled 
under  the  wide  straw  hat  tied  beneath  her  round 
chin  with  ribbons  as  blue  as  her  eyes.  "  And 
it 's  y'r  time  I  am  taking,  and  me  coming  to 
ask  y'  a  great  favor." 

"  Oh,  there  's  lots  of  time,"  Prunella  said,  a 
little  less  frigidly.  "  Do  come  in  out  of  the 
heat." 

So  the  unwelcome  visitor  came  in  and  put 
her  little  willow  basket  on  the  floor  at  her  side 
when  she  seated  herself  in  Prunella's  great- 
great-grandfather's  Sheraton  armchair.  Had 
Mrs.  Ladd  seen  her  so  sitting,  she  would  have 
found  the  incongruity  painful  and  significant, 
but  had  Dacre  Ladd  beheld  her,  he  would  have 
liked  the  composition  and  the  coloring,  the 
nice  tone  of  her  homespun  linen  dress  and 
the  fresh  pink  and  white  of  her  skin. 

"  It 's  like  this,  y'  see,"  she  was  saying.  "  I  've 
come  to  ask  if  y'r  aunt,  Miss  Hollins,  would  be 
so  good  as  to  spare  me  a  bit  of  cake.  I  'd  be  so 

70 


ICING 

thankful  to  her.  What  with  me  staying  last 
night  at  Major  Welling's,  my  brother  and  me, 
and  Uncle  Mike 's  telephoning  that  he  '11  be 
bringing  the  School  Board  to  dine,  and  me  so 
sleepy  with  the  sitting  up  and  all,  and  our  Nora 
with  a  toothache  on  her,  there 's  not  much 
they  '11  be  having  t'  eat.  And  so  perhaps  Miss 
Hollins  will  be  letting  me  have  a  bit  of  cake. 
'T  was  Mrs.  Clabby  said  so." 

Prunella  had  melted  enough  to  laugh.  "  Mrs. 
Clabby  told  you,  did  she?"  Then,  grown 
quickly  serious,  "And  you  were  at  the  Well- 
ings'  last  night?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  answered,  quite  simply.  "  Just 
as  soon  as  the  news  came,  Uncle  Mike  told 
Patrick  and  me  to  go.  He  was  quite  alone,  was 
the  young  man,  except  for  the  Polish  people. 
And  at  home,  in  Leenane,  in  our  country, 
always  when  there  was  grief  or  trouble,  and 
no  one  to  be  minding  things  —  always  we 
went.  Always  there  is  much  that  a  woman 
should  be  doing.  The  men  do  not  always  be 
thinking  of  —  of  the  tender  things."  Her  eyes 
had  filled  quickly. 

"  Was  not  Mrs.  Ladd  there?  "  Prunella  asked, 
again  a  little  cold. 

"  Not  till  the  morning,  and  then  so  pale  and 
71 


THE   INVADERS 


quiet.  Last  night  there  were  only  my  brother 
and  I,  and  the  man  they  sent  for.  It  was  that 
lonely  in  the  big  house !  And  Patrick  stayed 
close  by  the  young  gentleman.  It  seemed  to 
comfort  him  that  Pat  was  there,  he  was  that 
beside  himself.  And  Pat  was  telling  him  about 
when  our  father  died,  three  years  ago,  at  home, 
in  Leenane.  And  there  being  no  woman  in  the 
family,  it  was  enough  to  break  y'r  heart.  But 
the  Polish  woman  was  good,  and  her  nephew 
helped  me,  and  we  cut  great  boughs  of  syringa 
and  wistaria  and  woodbine,  till  the  house  was 
that  sweet !  It  was  moonlight  and  quite  easy 
the  cutting.  And  then  this  morning,  what  with 
the  flags  to  drape,  and  the  swords  and  the  brass 
buttons  on  the  uniform  to  be  shining —  Ah, 
there  was  a  plenty  to  do,  and  me  that  sleepy 
and  stupid  in  the  doing ! "  And  she  smothered 
a  little  yawn  behind  her  slender,  finely  shaped 
hand.  "  And  so,  if,  please,  I  could  have  the  bit 
of  cake,"  she  finished.  "  Y'  see,  I  Ve  not  been 
minding  the  house  as  I  should." 

Prunella  drew  a  long  breath.  "  I  '11  see,"  she 
said,  rising.  "I'm  not  at  all  sure.  Was  Miss 
Ladd  there?" 

"  Oh,  no !  Not  in  the  house.  I  was  after 
seeing  her  in  the  garden,  with  the  young  gen- 
72 


ICING 

tleman.  She  came  with  the  flowers.  And  then 
Mrs.  Ladd  went  with  the  young  gentleman  to 
see  about  the  grave.  It  does  seem  hard  to  be 
having  to  bury  him,  a  grand  soldier,  out  in  the 
fields.  But  Patrick  says  it  'a  where  the  family 
are  sleeping,  and  it 's  best  to  lie  with  one's  own, 
is  it  not?" 

"  Of  course,"  Prunella  answered.  "  But  the 
hideous  thing  is  that  the  foreigners  have  —  " 
She  remembered  and  stopped. 

The  foreigner  held  out  her  hand  quickly. 
"  Ah,  do  not  be  minding  me  !  "  she  cried  softly. 
"  It 's  often  and  often  that  Uncle  Mike  and 
Patrick  and  I  are  saying  how  hard  it  is  for  the 
old  places  to  go.  Everywhere  at  home,  in  my 
country,  it  is  the  same,  the  old  places  are  going. 
We  know.  And  always  —  always,  we  will  be 
tender."  Again  her  blue  eyes  had  filled  and 
her  delicate  color  came  swiftly.  "  Will  you  not 
always  remember  that  —  that  we  —  we  are  ten- 
der?" she  pleaded. 

"  Oh,  thank  you ! "  Prunella  said,  flushing 
too.  "  I  'm  sure  you  are.  I  '11  see  about  the 
cake."  She  was  thinking  how  glad  she  was 
that  their  family  had  been  sensible  and  buried 
in  the  town  cemetery. 

Miss  Hollins  was  waiting  at  the  dining-room 
73 


THE   INVADERS 


door  with  a  large  tray  of  cakes.  Her  face,  too, 
was  flushed. 

"  I  've  heard  it  all,"  she  whispered  excitedly. 
"  I  was  listening  at  the  crack.  It  was  my  right 
to  do  so.  Don't  be  un-Christian,  Prunella. 
Of  course  she  shall  have  cake.  I'm  not  a 
heathen." 

"  All  that,  Aunt  Lou ! " 

"  All  she  needs,  child.  Think  of  the  predica- 
ment. And  School  Boards  and  Selectmen  eat 
like  ogres.  You  take  them  in  —  there!  And 
tell  her  there 's  no  charge." 

"  No  charge  !  Oh,  Aunt  Lou  !  And  that  big 
bill  for  the  new  range  !  " 

"I  couldn't,  Prunella  —  from  her.  Do  as  I 
say." 

But  the  question  of  charge  was  seemingly  of 
not  the  smallest  concern  to  the  visitor.  After 
exclamations  of  delight  at  the  color  and  the 
lightness  and  the  fragrance,  she  went  on  with 
perfect  unconsciousness,  "And  perhaps  you  '11 
let  me  be  taking  them  just  as  they  are,  on  the 
tray.  Such  beauties  they  are !  And  my  basket  so 
wee.  And  then  right  away  I  '11  send  down  the 
tray  t'  y'  by  one  of  the  lads  from  the  farm. 
And  you  will  tell  y'r  aunt,  please,  how  very 
thankful  I  am." 

74 


ICING 

When  she  had  gone,  Prunella  flew  back  to 
the  dining-room. 

"  Took  them  all,  and  not  a  word  about  pay- 
ing," she  said  grimly.  "  What  do  you  think  of 
that,  Aunt  Lou  ?  " 

Miss  Hollins  wiped  her  glasses  on  the  edge  of 
her  apron.  "It  looks  to  me  as  if  —  as  if  she 
were  a  lady,"  she  answered.  "  You  wait  and 
see,  Prunella.  Don't  misjudge." 

Prunella  did  not  have  to  wait  long.  When 
she  came  home  to  dinner,  Miss  Hollins  beck- 
oned her  excitedly  into  the  kitchen. 

"  See  there  !  "  she  said  in  a  triumphant  tone. 
"  I  told  you  so.  And  Jane  Clabby  must  have 
told  her  my  prices.  She 's  sent  just  the  right 
amount,  to  a  cent.  I  know  the  very  patch  those 
berries  grew  in." 

On  the  icing-table  stood  the  tray,  brimming 
full  of  big  strawberries.  In  the  middle  lay  a 
small  envelope. 

"We  must  be  fair,  Prunella,  even  if  it  does 
hurt." 

"  I  did  n't  know  the  Irish  ever  had  crests," 
Prunella  said  critically,  putting  down  the  en- 
velope. 

"  Nor  I.  But  why  not ! "  And  Miss  Hollins 
picked  up  the  envelope  and  held  it  close  to  her 

75 


THE  INVADERS 


near-sighted  eyes.  "  And  in  good  taste.  They 
are  n't  half  so  unlike  us  as  the  Polanders  are." 

That  afternoon,  just  before  Prunella  ran 
home  to  hoe  the  beans,  Olivia  looked  through 
the  opening  into  her  cage.  The  post-office  was 
in  one  corner  of  the  general  store,  opposite  the 
candy  and  notion  counter,  and  flanked  with 
seeders  and  pitchforks  and  fertilizers.  In  mid- 
afternoon  Prunella's  corner  was  usually  de- 
serted. 

She  reached  into  Olivia's  box.  "Only  this. 
My !  How  white  and  tired  you  look,  Olivia ! 
Been  over  to  Dacre's  ?  " 

"No,"  Olivia  answered,  almost  sharply. 
"  Mamma  has."  Then  looking  at  her  letter, 
"  Oh,  Prunella  !  I  've  got  it.  It 's  my  appoint- 
ment. I  am  surprised.  Do  see ! " 

Prunella  came  out  and  looked  over  Olivia's 
shoulder. 

"  I  did  n't  think  you  would  either,"  she  said. 

But  there  seemed  to  have  been  little  question 
about  the  matter  in  the  minds  of  the  Honor- 
able Gentlemen  of  the  School  Board,  for,  accord- 
ing to  the  letter,  written  in  a  most  individual 
and  quite  unclerklike  hand,  she  had  been  unani- 
mously chosen  at  the  first  and  only  meeting 
since  she  had  made  application. 

76 


ICING 

"  He  wrote  it,"  Prunella  said. 

"  Who  ?  "  Olivia  asked,  quite  unnecessarily, 
considering  she  had  the  letter  still  open  in  her 
hand. 

"  Why,  that  Pat  Joyce." 

"  He  writes  it  l  Patrick/  "  Olivia  said,  a  little 
coldly.  "  I  suppose  I  must  acknowledge  it." 

Prunella  had  no  sense  of  humor,  but  just 
here  she  laughed. 

«  To  Mike,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  VII 

TAPS 

J.HB  sun  was  kind  that  day  as  the  procession 
came  out  of  the  shade  of  the  Welling  elms  into 
the  road  across  the  onion  fields.  All  morning 
the  heat  had  been  breathless,  except  for  a  hot 
breeze,  which  swayed  the  worn  lace  curtains  at 
the  parlor  windows,  between  which  the  Major 
lay.  In  full  uniform,  with  the  flag  of  his  com- 
pany for  a  coverlet,  and  his  sword  ready  at 
hand,  he  slept  as  if  after  a  victory,  his  face 
grown  smooth  and  almost  young  again  in  his 
repose.  Over  the  mantel,  the  portrait  of  his 
young  wife,  dead  in  their  long  ago  youth,  smiled 
down  at  him.  From  a  little  basket  of  flowers  in 
her  hand,  she  was  just  taking  a  pink  rose.  To 
Bride  Joyce,  going  in  and  out  with  flowers,  it 
seemed  that  she  meant  the  rose  for  him,  and 
she  put  one  into  his  hand  and  smiled  back  at 
the  portrait  lady. 

"  Y'll  be  giving  him  a  prettier  one  in  heaven, 
finding  him  that  young  and  handsome  again," 
she  said  softly. 

But  the  sun  of  the  morning  and  noon  went 
78 


TAPS 

in  as  the  hearse  and  the  half-dozen  carriages 
wound  along  the  grass-grown  drive  and  then 
out  into  the  dusty  field  road.  The  weeders  saw 
them  coming,  and  stood  up  and  bared  their 
heads,  and  watched  them  file  black  through  the 
gray  greenness  of  the  onions,  off  towards  the 
higher  tuft  of  cedars  in  the  far  north  field. 

Dacre,  in  the  carriage  with  Mrs.  Ladd  and 
Olivia,  sat  with  his  head  in  his  hands.  His  hat, 
with  the  new  weed  on  it,  was  on  the  seat  be- 
side him.  Now  and  then  his  heavy  eyes  met 
Olivia's  and  flushed  her  cheeks  and  made  her 
heart  beat. 

"  You  look  to-day  just  as  you  used  to  look 
long  ago,  when  you  and  Olivia  played  house 
in  the  orchard,"  Mrs.  Ladd  said,  half  tenderly. 

He  ran  his  hand  through  the  wave  of  tawny 
hair  over  his  brow.  "  I  wish  things  would  n't 
change  so  —  so  hideously,"  he  said  bitterly. 
"Poor  old  Grandfather  !  " 

"  I  wish  you  were  both  children  again,  you 
and  Olivia,"  Mrs.  Ladd  went  on. 

"  I  don't,"  he  said,  looking  at  Olivia. 

"  Things  might  be  so  different,  so  much 
better,  if  we  had  the  —  the  chance  again."  Mrs. 
Ladd  sighed. 

"  I  only  want  them  less  hideous  and  —  and 
79 


THE   INVADERS 


vulgar,"  he  exclaimed.  "  Poor  old  Grandfather ! 
He  was  too  much  of  a  soldier  to  be  a  good  man- 
ager. He  had  plenty  of  fine  chances  to  sell  the 
place.  He  might  have  lived  twenty  years  longer 
if  he  'd  let  it  go." 

Olivia  remembered  the  white  old  face  staring 
at  the  empty  fireplace  and  heard  the  shrill  old 
voice,  and  looked  away,  out  of  the  window.  The 
procession  was  making  a  turn,  the  first  carriage 
crossing  the  bridge  over  Larch  Brook.  Larch 
Brook  made  almost  an  island  of  the  little  knoll 
where  slept  generations  of  Wellings,  under  a 
coverlet  of  periwinkle,  shaded  by  dark,  pointed 
cedars.  She  could  see  the  first  carriage  over 
the  bridge,  then  the  hearse  with  the  flag-draped 
coffin,  then  the  next  carriage  with  the  veterans 
and  the  minister,  then  the  next  with  the  bearers, 
and  on  the  door  a  man's  brown  hand  holding  a 
Panama  hat.  It  was  Patrick  Joyce's  hand,  prob- 
ably, for  he  was  one  of  the  bearers. 

"  And  now  you  will  let  the  old  place  go  ?  " 
her  mother  was  going  on  to  Dacre. 

"  It 's  gone  ! "  he  said  sharply,  "  as  far  as 
I'm  concerned.  I  saw  Chesson  yesterday  and  he 
says  it 's  mortgaged  almost  up  to  its  value  —  a 
trifle  of  a  thousand  left  over.  I  knew  there  was 
a  mortgage,  of  course,  but  I  never  dreamed 

80 


TAPS 

the  amount.  Grandfather  was  close-mouthed. 
Thought  I  had  n't  sense  enough  to  understand, 
I  suppose." 

"  Who  holds  the  mortgage  ?  "  Mrs.  Ladd 
asked  in  a  colorless  tone. 

Dacre's  tone  was  not  colorless.  "  Joyce.  Who 
do  you  suppose  !  He  holds  the  valley,  I  believe, 
and  lets  it  out  to  the  Poles.  But  I  'm  glad  he  's 
the  man  —  if  there  has  to  be  a  change.  He 's  a 
good  enough  sort,  and  that  nephew  and  niece 
of  his  —  they  're  all  right !  They  've  done  just 
about  everything  since  Grandfather  died.  I 
could  n't.  To-day  there  would  n't  have  been  a 
bit  of  singing  if  they  had  n't  hustled  around 
and  got  up  something.  The  girl 's  like  a  Greuze 
and  full  of  temperament." 

Olivia  winced  at  the  irrelevancy.  It  was  like 
Dacre. 

Mrs.  Ladd  had  sunk  back  in  her  corner.  They 
were  rumbling  over  the  bridge.  Dacre  drew  a 
long  breath  and  looked  at  Olivia. 

"  I  'm  through  with  the  whole  miserable  busi- 
ness. I  'm  going  to  work,"  he  said.  "  I  'm  off  to- 
morrow, and  sail  Saturday.  It 's  a  close  shave, 
but  I  Ve  been  bound  to  go  with  La  Rose  himself. 
It 's  my  tide,  is  n't  it,  Olivia  ?  Joyce  has  advanced 
me  the  thousand.  Pretty  decent  of  him." 

81 


THE  INVADERS 


"  You  are  right  to  go,  Dacre,"  Mrs.  Ladd 
said,    "but   I  wish  it  did  not  have  to  be  so 


soon." 


"It's  now  or  never!"  he  answered  shortly. 

They  had  left  the  onion  rows  and  were  climb- 
ing the  grassy  road  around  the  little  knoll.  In 
the  gray  stillness,  there  were  just  the  soft  thud 
of  the  horses'  hoofs  and  the  swift  rush  of  the 
brook.  Then  there  was  the  stop  at  the  little 
gate,  the  click  of  opening  doors,  and  the  sound 
of  hushed  voices. 

Olivia  followed  close  after  her  mother  and 
Dacre  over  the  matted  periwinkle  to  the  new 
grave  under  the  tall  cedar  by  the  wall.  Long 
sprays  of  neglected  rosebushes,  catching  her 
skirts,  showered  pink  and  white  and  crimson 
petals.  Just  ahead  marched  the  veterans,  trem- 
ulous, with  old  shoulders  feebly  squared  ;  ahead 
of  them  went  the  coffin,  flag-draped,  between 
young,  stalwart  bearers. 

When  they  rested  the  Major  on  the  peri- 
winkle, and  the  minister  began  to  read,  — 
"  Moreover,  brethren,  I  declare  unto  you  the 
gospel  which  I  preached  unto  you — "  Olivia 
drew  back,  away  from  where  Dacre's  quick 
hand-clasp  had  drawn  her,  and  leaned  in  the 
angle  of  the  wall,  under  the  tremulous  boughs 

82 


TAPS 

of  a  white  birch.  The  weight  of  her  secret  had 
pressed  heavy  during  the  ride.  And  now  her 
mother's  pale,  set  face  was  more  than  she  could 
endure,  and  Dacre's  bitter  lack  of  sorrow  made 
her  own  heart  ache  with  a  strange  complexity 
of  pain.  The  poor  old  Major  !  The  last  of  them 
all,  except  Dacre,  to  be  put  under  the  periwinkle 
out  there  in  the  fields  of  his  fathers,  that  were 
no  longer  his !  And  it  was  her  father  that  had 
dispossessed  him !  And  he  had  not  had  the 
courage  to  face  what  he  had  done ;  he  had  left 
it  to  her  to  atone.  Did  her  mother  know  ?  And 
if  she  did  know,  did  she  dream  that  she,  Olivia, 
knew  ?  And  knowing,  did  she  still  tell  her  to 
marry  out  of  the  valley,  new  blood,  success, 
money  ? 

It  was  very  still,  just  the  wind  in  the  cedars 
and  the  brook's  voice.  All  around  stretched  the 
fields,  with  the  dark  green  of  the  Major's  elms 
and  pines  off  there  to  the  left.  Behind  the  wall 
on  which  she  leaned  the  hills  climbed  to  the 
overcast  sky. 

In  the  little  group  of  singers  stood  Patrick 
and  Bride  Joyce.  He  flushed  slowly  as  he 
glanced  over  at  the  wall  and  then  away,  turn- 
ing the  leaves  of  the  songbook  and  bending  to 
whisper  to  his  sister.  He  seemed  almost  defi- 

83 


THE   INVADERS 


antly,  arrogantly  tall  and  straight  and  firm  and 
clear-cut,  this  dark-haired  young  Irishman 
against  the  wide,  sad  background  of  fields  — 
fields  that  his  uncle  was  getting  away  from 
those  whose  forefathers  had  held  them  since 
Indian  days.  Very  much  an  invader  he  seemed 
there  in  the  little  cemetery,  waiting  to  sing  the 
old  Major  into  his  last  repose. 

And  then  presently  they  were  singing,  and 
his  barytone  was  just  as  firm  and  clear  and  as- 
sured as  he  himself,  as  he  followed  on :  — 

"Sleep,  comrade,  sleep,  in  calm  repose." 

She  looked  bitterly  away  from  him  to  Dacre, 
leaning  with  bowed  head  on  the  tall  gray  cross 
that  marked  his  mother's  grave.  He  and  she 
were  the  last  of  it  all,  of  the  old  order.  That  in 
itself  meant  that  Fate  intended  them  for  each 
other  and  for  no  one  else.  And  through  them, 
Fate,  or  God,  or  whatever  it  was,  expected  a 
resurrection,  required  it  of  them,  a  new  and 
splendid  order  out  of  the  old. 

"  Sad,  ain't  it !  "  Mrs.  Clabby  whispered  at 
her  side,  wiping  the  tears  off  her  rusty  veil. 
"  That 's  Mrs.  Welling's  grave,  right  'longside 
of  him.  Awful  proud-sperrited  woman!  And 

now  all  these  onion  fields  and  these  outlandish 

84 


TAPS 

foreigners  creeping  up  on  her.  Don't  seem  nat- 
ural for  her  to  stay  quiet  an'  let  'em  come." 

"  Shall  reign  till  life  doth  cease," 

rang  out  the  voices,  clearest  the  barytone  and 
the  fine  silver  of  the  soprano. 

"An'  Mrs.  Archibald  was  just  sayin'  how 
Dacre's  all  alone,"  Mrs.  Clabby  whispered  on 
behind  her  black  cotton  glove ;  "  not  a  soul  re- 
lated to  him  except  that  high-flyin'  Mrs.  Chap- 
pell  that  lives  'way  out  in  San  Francisco  an* 
has  the  mortgage  on  the  silver  an'  the  mahog- 
any. Poor  boy!  An'  no  more  business  sense 
than  a  —  a  hoptoad  !  " 

The  prayer  stopped  her. 

"  Our  Heavenly  Father,  unchanged  and  un- 
changing ! " 

Dacre's  eyes  met  Olivia's  across  the  grave- 
stones. Then  she  bowed  her  head  and  saw  the 
little  ferns  in  the  crannies  of  the  wall,  the 
lichens  on  the  stones,  a  tiny  feather  caught  in 
a  cobweb.  But  all  the  time  she  was  poignantly 
aware  of  the  two  men;  of  Dacre,  the  last  of 
his  race,  alone  and  through  her  father's  fault 
dispossessed ;  and  of  the  invader  there  among 
them,  firm  and  assured,  with  his  ringing  voice. 

"  0  God !  0  God ! "  her  heart  throbbed.  «  Let 
85 


THE   INVADERS 


a  miracle  be !  Let  me  so  love  him  that  I  can 
make  a  king  of  him !  Help  me  to  atone  to  him, 
and  make  him  strong  to  achieve,  and  help  us 
both  to  drive  out  those  who  have  taken  what  so 
long  has  been  ours ! " 

The  other  prayer  ended.  A  meadowlark  sang 
high  and  sweet  in  the  cool  gray  air.  Miss  Hol- 
lins  stood  patting  Dacre's  shoulder.  They  were 
lowering  the  flag-draped  coffin  and  singing, 
"  Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee." 

Olivia  left  the  wall  angle  and  went  over  and 
stood  by  her  mother,  on  Dacre's  other  side- 
After  all,  why  not !  For  a  lifetime  they  had 
been  playmates.  And  their  parents  before  them 
had  grown  up  together.  Her  mother's  hand 
was  cold  when  she  clasped  it. 

Mrs.  Clabby  sobbed  aloud. 

When  it  was  quite  over,  she  found  herself 
walking  at  Dacre's  side  over  the  periwinkle. 

"  Over  there  in  the  corner,  the  other  side  of 
Mother,  is  where  they  '11  put  me,"  he  said  in 
an  undertone. 

She  lifted  large  eyes  full  of  unshed  tears. 
"  And  I  ?  "  she  whispered. 

"  Oh,  there 's  plenty  of  room  between  me 
and  the  white  rosebush,"  he  whispered  back 
lightly.  "  Jove  !  But  that  girl's  voice  is  sweet. 

86 


TAPS 

There's  a  sort  of  heartbreak  in  it,  isn't 
there?" 

"  There 's  a  good  deal  of  heartbreak  in  every- 
thing, it  seems  to  me,"  Olivia  answered  with 
sudden  sharpness. 

"  Oh,  that 's  what 's  the  matter  with  me,"  he 
said  irritably.  "  I  've  had  too  much  of  that  sort 
of  thing.  I  need  a  lot  of  joy  to  set  me  going. 
And  to-morrow  "  —  his  voice  dropped  into  the 
tenderness  that  made  her  cheeks  flame  —  "  to- 
morrow early,  I  '11  come  over  for  good-bye.  My 
train  goes  at  eleven.  To-night  there 's  packing, 
lots  to  burn  up  and  tear  up.  You  '11  be  good  to 
me  —  for  good-bye  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes !  I  '11  be  very  good.  And  you  '11  not 
let  Mamma  dream  of  —  of  it  ?  " 

"  Not  dream  of  it,  dearest,"  he  whispered  as 
he  held  open  the  carriage  door  for  her. 

But  going  home,  she  wondered  if  she  were 
not  dreaming,  as  she  watched,  for  him,  the 
receding  of  the  little  green  knoll  into  the  quiet 
and  loneliness  of  the  evening,  and  heard  his 
hopeful  talk  with  her  mother,  of  Paris,  of  La 
Rose's  studio,  of  how  hard  he  was  going  to 
work,  of  what  he  had  read  and  heard  tell  of  the 
inspiration  of  life  in  the  Quartier  Latin. 

"  In  a  year,  or  two  at  the  most,  you  and 
87 


THE   INVADERS 


Olivia  will  be  coming  over  to  see  me  hanging 
'  on  the  line/  "  he  said  almost  gayly,  as  he  left 
them  at  their  gate,  and  then  was  driven  off  to 
the  old  house  across  the  fields. 

But  the  next  morning  there  was  not  much  of 
a  dream  about  the  heartache  when,  from  the 
kitchen  doorstep  where  she  sat  shelling  peas, 
she  heard  him  come  whistling  through  the  gate 
and  up  the  path,  with  Ben,  the  setter,  just  as 
for  years  he  had  come  to  get  her  to  go  canoe- 
ing or  tramping  or  fishing.  Ben  found  her  first, 
in  sudden  pursuit  of  a  stray  chicken,  which 
brought  him  flying  around  the  house.  Then 
there  were  Dacre's  call,  "  Olivia ! "  and  her 
mother's  answer  from  upstairs,  "  She  's  in  the 
kitchen,"  and  then  he  was  on  the  step  at  her 
side  and  the  peas  were  rolling  over  the  sun- 
flecked  flagstones. 

"I  '11  pick  them  up,  darling,"  he  cried  softly. 
"  Who  cares !  Only  ten  minutes  and  enough 
love  to  last  for  a  year ! "  And  he  drew  her  head 
down  on  his  shoulder  and  kissed  and  kissed. 

"  Ssh !  Quick !  Mamma  will  come,"  she 
pleaded,  drawing  back. 

He  sprang  up  and  drew  her  to  her  feet.  He 
was  very  splendidly  handsome  in  his  new  gray 
suit  with  his  black-banded  Panama  and  his 

88 


TAPS 

black  tie,  and  the  black  band  on  his  left  arm, 
and  the  bright  color  in  his  boyish  face.  And  he 
was  quite  imperious  and  determined  as  he  put 
an  arm  around  her  and  drew  her  close  and  tilted 
her  chin,  and  looked  down  into  her  clear  eyes. 

"  You  're  sure  —  sure  — sure,  dearest  ?  "  he 
said.  "  You  're  so  clever  and  beautiful,  there  '11 
be  dozens  of  fellows  after  you.  You  won't 
change  —  sure  ?  " 

"  Never  !  I  Ve  promised,"  she  whispered  trem- 
ulously. "  There  can  never  be  any  one  but 
you.  And  you  '11  work,  really,  dear?  And  you  '11 
be  —  be  good  ?  Paris  is  so  big  and  so  wicked. 
And  the  Paris  women  are  so  —  " 

He  laughed  and  kissed  the  words  hotly  off 
her  lips. 

"  So  unlike  you !  "  he  finished  grandly,  and 
then  went  to  meet  Mrs.  Ladd  in  the  hall,  and 
let  Olivia  pick  up  the  peas  and  cool  her  cheeks 
and  make  her  eyes  less  shining. 

And  presently,  he  had  gayly  explained  that 
if  they  were  willing,  Ben  was  to  be  their  dog 
until  his  master  sent  for  him,  and  then  there 
were  more  gay  good-byes,  with  much  laughing 
about  the  gay  Parisiennes,  and  then  the  gate 
under  the  honeysuckles  had  slammed  after  him. 

Ben  was  crying  piteously  in  the  long  parlor, 
89 


THE   INVADERS 


where  Dacre  had  shut  him  up.  OH  via  dusted  off 
the  hall  table  carefully  with  the  handkerchief 
she  had  been  waving. 

"  The  dust  is  fearful.  I  wish  it  would  rain," 
she  said. 

"But  not  storm,"  Mrs.  Ladd  protested,  be- 
ginning reluctantly  to  climb  the  stairs.  "  I  do 
hope  he  '11  have  a  good  passage.  But  it  does 
seem  all  wrong  that  he  went  so  soon  after  the 
funeral.  It  is  n't  respectful  —  or  practical.  He  's 
left  everything  in  that  Joyce's  hands,  and  ac- 
cepted some  sort  of  —  of  accommodation  from 
him.  But  then  that 's  a  Welling  all  over  again  ! 
Do  you  need  any  help  with  the  peas,  Olivia?" 

"  They  're  shelled,  Mamma.  All  done  ! " 
Olivia  said. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

HO  !    FOR    THE    FERRY  ! 

J:  RUNELLA  would  never  have  permitted  Robbie 
to  go  to  the  circus  when  an  egg  famine  threat- 
ened Miss  Hollins's  pantry,  and  the  hot  weather 
made  so  likely  an  increase  of  boarders  from  the 
city.  But  her  aunt  had  been  deaf  to  her  argu- 
ments, and  had  not  only  given  Robbie  a  dime 
for  peanuts,  but  had  wrapped  half  a  fifteen- 
cent  sponge  cake  in  a  paper  napkin  and  tucked 
it  into  his  jacket  pocket.  It  was  this  last  foolish 
indulgence  that  still  rankled  in  Prunella's  bosom 
as  she  walked  quickly  through  the  onion  fields 
towards  the  Welling  place  to  see  whether  Mrs. 
Wieniaski  had  any  eggs  to  sell. 

"  I  '11  go,"  Prunella  had  said,  not  amiably. 
"  I  suppose  it 's  a  vital  necessity  for  Robbie  to 
see  those  idiotic  clowns.  It  will  blight  his  young 
life  if  he  does  n't." 

"  Not  at  all,  Prunella,  but  I  promised,"  Miss 
Hollins  had  answered,  making  mayonnaise  with 
the  only  two  eggs  in  the  house.  "  I  promised 
the  boy  last  winter,  when  I  had  that  big  order 
for  the  D.  A.  R.  reception  in  Wellfield,  and  he 

91 


THE  INVADERS 


had  to  make  six  trips  to  the  station  with  cake 
in  one  day.  He  was  nice  about  it  when  he  really 
wanted  to  go  skating,  and  I  promised.  I  'm 
sorry,  Prunella.  Perhaps  that  little  Leon  Cilkow 
across  the  street  will  go." 

"  No,  I  '11  go,"  Prunella  insisted.  "  Don't 
let 's  get  mixed  up  with  any  more  foreigners, 
for  goodness'  sake  !  "  And  she  took  off  her  big 
post-office  apron  and  jabbed  her  hatpin  viciously 
through  her  last  summer's  straw  hat  trimmed 
with  the  poppies  of  two  summers  before,  and 
went  out  and  slammed  the  gate  behind  her. 

"  The  walk  will  do  her  more  good  any  day 
than  hoeing  beans,"  Miss  Hollins  said  to  her- 
self, comfortably  dropping  oil.  "  And  then,  be- 
sides, she  '11  find  out  just  what  those  Polanders 
are  doing  with  the  Welling  place,  and  whether 
Millicent  Chappell  has  taken  away  all  her 
uncle's  silver  and  mahogany.  There 's  that  in- 
laid worktable  that  I  should  like  to  get  myself. 
My  mother  gave  it  to  Mrs.  Welling  for  a  wed- 
ding present." 

Meanwhile,  Prunella  was  going  rapidly  along 
the  wide  village  street.  In  her  then  present 
mood,  it  annoyed  her  exceedingly  that  Michael 
Joyce's  big  touring-car  stood  in  front  of  the 
town  hall  and  that  Patrick  Joyce  was  tinkering 

92 


HO!  FOR  THE  FERRY! 


quite  familiarly  with  one  of  the  tires.  He  had 
thrown  off  his  coat  and  hat  and  worked  in  a 
light-blue  madras  shirt  that  became  well  his 
clear  dark  skin.  Prunella,  of  course,  had  no  eye 
for  the  color  scheme,  and  bowed  coldly  when  he 
looked  up  and  smiled  and  asked  if  he  might  n't 
take  her  on  her  errand  in  the  car. 

"  It 's  just  wasting  its  time  standing  here 
idle,  and  me  mending  it  when  there 's  not  a  bit 
of  it  broken,"  he  said.  "  It  would  be  a  great 
kindness  if  you  would  let  me  take  you,  and  you 
in  a  hurry." 

But  she  only  shook  her  head  and  smiled 
scarcely  at  all,  and  noticed  how  black  and  oily 
his  hands  were.  As  she  passed  the  Ladds',  she 
saw  Olivia  weeding  the  lettuce  and  parsley  in 
the  garden.  She  could  tell  that  Olivia  had  just 
washed  her  hair;  it  made  a  fluffy,  sunny  pile 
on  the  top  of  her  head  as  she  bent  over  the 
green. 

However,  across  the  fields  the  walk  was  hot 
and  undiverted,  and  it  was  not  until  she  came 
into  the  marshy  grounds  below  the  orchard  that 
adventure  began. 

"  Just  as  I  might  have  expected  ! "  she  ex- 
claimed to  herself.  "  High  water  after  the  storm 

yesterday  an4  tl*e  day  before !  Now,  what  '11 1 

93 


THE   INVADERS 


do  !  And  after  all  this  walk,  too.  Robbie  ought 
never  to  have  gone  to  the  circus.  But  that  is 
exactly  like  Aunt  Lou  !  " 

Before  she  had  time  longer  to  lament  her 
plight,  a  wholly  charming  and  novel  possibility 
presented  itself.  Out  of  the  weeds  and  fern 
that  ran  riot  in  the  little  valley  and  that  now 
made  a  picturesque  border  for  the  highwater 
creek,  there  protruded,  quite  close  to  the  tuft  of 
sedge  on  which  she  stood,  the  end  of  a  small 
raft.  Instantly  there  came  visions  of  the  old  days 
when  she  and  Olivia  and  Dacre  had  paddled 
on  just  such  floating  palaces,  en  route  for  the 
foreign  shores  pictured  in  Clark's  Geography. 
And  it  was  quite  Prunella-like  for  her  to  forget 
her  injuries  and  afflictions  and  set  herself  de- 
lightfully afloat  upon  it  over  the  muddy  cur- 
rent. Such  fun  was  it  that  she  poled  herself 
first  a  little  upstream  and  then  a  little  down- 
stream, and  finally  landed  herself  almost  reluc- 
tantly on  the  orchard  side  and  pushed  the  raft 
into  a  safe  mooring  among  the  fern.  Surely 
Robbie  at  the  circus  was  no  better  diverted  with 
the  idiotic  clowns  !  Then,  to  make  up  for  lost 
minutes,  she  ran  through  the  orchard  and  the 
garden,  and  up  to  the  elm-shaded  yard. 

Doors  and  windows  of  the  old  house  stood 
94 


HO!  FOR   THE   FERRY! 


wide  open.  Bits  of  excelsior  and  tissue  paper 
and  rags,  and  leaves  of  old  music,  littered  the 
much-trodden  grass.  A  seatless  chair  stood  under 
the  pear  tree.  Prunella  slowed  down  suddenly. 
Among  the  rags  was  a  scrap  of  delicately  flow- 
ered blue  satine.  The  sight  of  it  there  in  the 
debris  of  the  broken-up  old  home  gave  her  a 
strange  sensation.  She  remembered  it  well.  The 
only  time  she  had  ever  seen  Dacre's  mother,  she 
had  worn  that  flowered  satine.  The  picture  came 
back  quite  vividly  from  her  very  little  girl- 
hood —  such  a  pretty,  pretty  lady  with  crinkly 
golden  hair,  coming  into  church,  leading 
Dacre  in  white  kilts,  with  curls  like  his  mother's. 
The  next  time  she  had  seen  Dacre's  mother 
come  into  church,  she  had  been  borne  in  her 
coffin,  on  her  way  to  the  little  periwinkle  knoll 
in  the  far  north  field,  and  Dacre,  a  big  boy  of 
ten,  with  his  curls  gone,  had  come  in  hand  in 
hand  with  his  grandfather. 

"  Silly  of  me !  "  Prunella  muttered,  dashing 
her  hand  over  her  eyes.  "  I  never  cry.  What 's 
the  matter  with  me?" 

Then  her  glance  fell  upon  scraps  of  old  let- 
ters, an  old  photograph  of  the  Major  as  first 
lieutenant,  a  baby  picture,  perhaps,  of  Dacre,  a 
faded  spray  of  artificial  roses. 

95 


THE  INVADERS 


"  Brutal  of  him  to  go  and  leave  strangers  to 
do  it  all,  touch  all  the  family  things,  but  just 
like  him  ! "  she  was  thinking.  "  Light  and  self- 
ish if  a  man  ever  was  !  Oh,  if  Olivia  should  be 
such  a  fool !  " 

"  Oh,  it  iss  you,  Missis  Loomis,"  called  a  gut- 
tural voice  from  the  kitchen  door.  "  You  come 
when  all  much  mixed  up.  Yust  thiz  day  have 
gone  ze  things  to  ze  lady  ant  not  yet  I  bring 
my  things." 

"  I  have  come  for  eggs,  Mrs.  Wieniaski," 
Prunella  answered  coldly.  "  Have  you  any  to 
sell?"  The  barefooted,  disheveled  woman  in 
the  familiar  doorway  gave  her  a  distinct  shock, 
foolish  as  she  thought  it  ever  to  be  shocked. 

"  I  no  look  to-day  yet,  so  much  to  do,  and 
my  hens  no  lay  well,"  Mrs.  Wieniaski  responded 
blandly.  "  I  see  quick  when  I  put  on  my  shoes. 
I  get  stuck  in  ze  garden  by  ze  weeds.  You 
come  in  an  I  go  see." 

She  was  putting  on  the  great  shoes  she  had 
taken  from  under  the  stove.  Prunella  stepped 
gingerly  into  the  littered  kitchen,  and  went  on 
through  the  great  pantry,  into  the  long  din- 
ing-room, where  the  lines  left  by  the  pictures 
showed  pale  on  the  wall-paper,  the  big  fireplace 
was  filled  with  torn  letters,  and  the  shadows  of 

96 


HO!  FOR  THE  FERRY! 


the  wistaria  leaves  flickered  on  the  dusty  floor. 
Where  had  stood  the  old  mahogany  side- 
board there  was  a  washtub  full  of  soaking 
clothes. 

"  Beasts !  "  Prunella  was  saying  to  herself. 
"  If  Dacre  had  had  any  spirit  he  would  have 
dug  ditches  or  sold  peanuts  rather  than  have 
things  this  way.  And  gone  to  be  an  artist  with 
a  Polish  washtub  in  his  great-great-grand- 
father's dining-room ! " 

Wistaria  and  woodbine  shadows  were  the 
only  unchanged  things  in  the  long  parlors,  she 
was  anticipating,  as  she  stepped  across  the  fami- 
liar threshold.  Suddenly,  she  stopped,  amazed. 
At  the  windows  hung  the  old  lace  curtains,  and 
there  stood  the  old  square  piano,  just  as  it  al- 
ways had  stood,  between  the  doors ;  it  was  open 
and  on  the  rack  was  a  thick,  light-green  folio 
marked  "  Dvorak,  Edition  Schirmer."  So  new 
was  the  folio  that  it  was  not  yet  flattened  out 
on  the  stand.  Prunella  drew  nearer  to  look. 
Things  were  connecting  themselves  in  her 
mind.  Only  the  day  before,  that  Stefan  Posa- 
dowski  had  got  just  such  a  bulky  parcel  by 
post  from  New  York.  Impudent  thing !  It  was 
all  quite  clear  now.  He  had  bought  the  Well- 
ing piano,  the  piano  that  had  been  Dacre's 

97 


THE   INVADERS 


mother's  and  grandmother's !  And  Dacre  was 
gone  without  a  pang  at  the  desecration. 

"Yust  twelf  ekks  I  fint,"  said  Mrs.  Wien- 
iaski  at  her  elbow.  She  had  again  removed  her 
shoes  and  so  had  come  noiselessly  into  the  room. 
"  You  look  our  Stefan's  piano.  He  play  much 
music.  He  no  lak  to  work.  He  not  my  son.  He 
my  husband's  sister  son.  His  mowther  gret 
singer  lady.  She  die.  Stefan  lak  much  thiz 
plaze,  but  he  no  work  to  pay.  He  play  ant  play 
all  time.  He  no  goot  to  mek  money.  He  not 
lak  us.  He  too  fine.  He  say  kip  old  plaze  all 
nize."  She  shrugged  her  fat  shoulders  and 
laughed,  showing  her  gold-filled  teeth.  "  Me 
ant  my  man,  we  work  all  day  ant  we  no  time  to 
kip  things  nize." 

Prunella  held  out  her  hand.  "  The  eggs," 
she  said  coldly.  "  How  much  are  they  ?  It  will 
be  too  bad  if  you  do  not  keep  things — clean." 

"  Thirty-fife  cents,  please.  Oh,  always  I  kip 
things  clean.  Ant  we  will  hafe  many  boarders 
ant  I  will  hafe  them  to  be  clean.  You  will  see. 
Stefan  he  clean.  Always  he  wash  himself  much. 
Too  much,  my  man  say.  All  ofer  efery  day  — 
that  too  much.  Soap  it  costs  too  much." 

Out  in  the  yard,  Prunella  stopped  and  picked 
up  the  scrap  of  delicately  flowered  blue  satine. 

98 


HO!  FOR  THE   FERRY! 


"  I  '11  take  it  home  to  Aunt  Lou.  Perhaps  she 
will  remember  the  very  dress.  It  will  interest 
her  anyhow,"  she  said  to  herself,  going  down 
through  garden  and  orchard  with  a  queer  load 
on  her  heart.  "  Oh,  that  brute !  To  go  and 
leave  things  this  way !  Oh,  if  Olivia  should 
marry  him  !  I've  a  great  mind  to  tell  her  just 
what  I  think.  He  was  always  selfish  as  a  boy. 
And  if  she  just  knew!" 

Then  her  thought  sped  ahead  of  her  to  the 
repetition  of  the  raft  adventure  and  she  quick- 
ened her  steps  into  a  little  run  down  the  hill, 
with  due  care  of  her  eggs.  But  this  time  no 
such  solitary  enterprise  was  possible.  Instead, 
there  faced  her  what  seemed  a  most  odious 
necessity. 

The  raft  lay  safely  moored  on  the  other  side 
of  the  water  and  Mr.  Stefan  Posadowski,  after 
so  mooring  her,  was  just  climbing  the  opposite 
bank.  Desperate  as  the  moment  was,  Prunella 
remembered  that  he  was  "  too  clean  "  when  she 
observed  his  snowy  outing  shirt. 

He  was  instantly  aware  of  her  glance,  and 
turning,  lifted  his  soft  gray  hat  from  the  some- 
what Paderewski-like  lock  of  hair  that  fell  over 
his  brow. 

"Oh,  you  will  gif  me  pardon,  please!"  he 
99 


THE  INVADERS 


cried,  running  down  the  bank.  "I  haf  not 
known  you  come." 

Her  instantaneous  fear  that  he  would  smile 
and  be  perhaps  familiar  had  quite  vanished.  He 
was  serious  and  aloof  almost  to  melancholy. 
His  dark  eyes,  under  their  heavy,  level  brows, 
were  tragic  rather  than  humorous. 

"  At  once  I  come  and  bring  you  across,"  he 
went  on,  poling  out  the  raft.  "  For  two  it  iss 
quite  safe.  I  myself  haf  made  it." 

"  Oh,  thank  you !  "  Prunella  said  stiffly,  hold- 
ing her  eggs  and  thinking  about  the  washtub 
in  the  dining-room. 

The  raft  touched  the  shore,  and  with  all  the 
stately  formality  of  a  polonaise  dancer  in  his 
native  land,  Stefan  handed  Prunella  and  her 
eggs  aboard.  There  was  a  fine  dull  color  in  his 
olive  cheeks. 

"Your  frient's  old  home,  iss  it  not  to  you 
most  sad  ?  "  he  asked  quietly  as  he  pushed  off. 
But  he  did  not  look  at  her. 

"  It  is  —  most  —  sad,"  she  answered.  She 
wanted  to  say  "most  dirty,"  but  the  sight  of 
his  long,  shapely  brown  hands  on  the  pole 
would  n't  let  her. 

"To  me  it  iss  so.  All  ze  time  I  feel  ze  —  ze 
uzzer  lifes  in  ze  rooms.  I  cannot  forget.  I 
100 


HO!  FOR   THE   FERRY! 


not  much  like  zis  land,  where  to  get  rich  iss 
all,  and  all  iss  work,  work,  and  change  what  iss 
old." 

Prunella  melted  a  little.  "I  shouldn't  think 
you  would,"  she  said.  "  Why  don't  you  go 
back  to  your  own  land  ?  " 

He  lifted  his  melancholy  eyes  for  a  moment 
to  hers.  "  You  think  so  ?  My  uncle  he  say  gret 
chance  here.  To  me,  music  it  is  my  chance  — 
not  onions."  The  ghost  of  a  smile  crossed  his 
lips.  "  You  like  music  ?  " 

"  Dear  me  !  I  don't  know  '  Yankee  Doodle ' 
from  the  '  Doxology,'  without  the  words,"  Pru- 
nella said  briskly  as  they  touched  shore.  "  Now 
I  must  hurry."  And  she  sprang  off  lightly  with- 
out waiting  for  his  help. 

"  Zat  music  I  do  not  know,"  he  said  reflec- 
tively. 

He  stood  holding  his  hat  in  his  hand,  and  it 
struck  Prunella  as  she  looked  at  him  that  even 
his  awkwardness  was  courtly.  And  yet  his  man- 
ner bored  her.  It  was  too  impressive.  What 
right  had  he  to  be  courtly  ? 

"  Oh,  thank  you  very  much  !  "  she  added. 

"  It  iss  I  zat  sank  you,"  he  said  carefully, 
and  then  began  to  find  mooring  the  small  raft 
quite  a  slow  and  elaborate  process,  that  she 
101 


THE   INVADERS 


might  have  ample  time  to  get  up  the  bank  and 
well  on  her  way  before  he  followed. 

"Thank  Heaven,  he  knew  his  place  and 
did  n't  insist  on  walking  with  me  all  through 
the  fields,"  she  said  afterwards,  relating  her 
adventures  to  Miss  Hollins.  "And  somehow 
you  can't  help  feeling  sorry  for  him.  He 's  really 
decent.  I  told  him  to  go  back  to  his  own  coun- 
try. I  did,  Aunt  Lou.  He  is  n't  like  the  other 
Polanders,  and  I  should  think  he  'd  perish,  liv- 
ing as  they  live.  And  think  of  his  having 
Madam  Welling' s  old  piano  —  and  actually 
playing  on  it,  Aunt  Lou  !  Is  n't  Dacre  a  brute?" 

Miss  Hollins  snipped  the  threads  off  the  finely 
finished  darn  in  the  tablecloth. 

"  I  guess  Madam  Welling  won't  mind,"  she 
said,  with  a  little  smile.  "  I  '11  walk  over  some 
Sunday  and  get  him  to  play  to  me." 

"Aunt  Lou!  What  perfect  nonsense!  And 
Mrs.  Clabby  would  fall  in  a  fit  from  horror." 


CHAPTEE  IX 

CROP   ROTATION 

OLIVIA  sat  at  her  father's  tall  mahogany  desk 
with  the  glass  doors.  It  had  seemed  altogether 
natural  for  her  to  appropriate  his  study  back 
of  the  sitting-room,  with  the  door  opening  on 
the  gravel  path  that  led  to  the  garden  and  the 
barns.  Just  now  the  path  was  narrowed  with 
the  profusion  of  the  Sweet  Williams  and  the 
lemon  lilies  and  the  Scotch  roses.  The  desk 
stood  in  the  angle  between  the  west  window 
and  the  door  so  that  in  the  old  times  her  father 
could  look  up  from  his  reading  or  writing  and 
see  his  orchards  and  meadows,  and,  even,  in 
the  leafless  winter  days,  follow  with  his  eyes 
the  little  path  that  led  from  the  meadows  to  the 
high  pasture,  and  catch  the  silver  shine  of  the 
birches  along  the  trout  brook. 

Olivia,  however,  was  intent  upon  the  pam- 
phlet spread  open  before  her  on  the  desk.  It 
was  the  circular  announcing  the  summer  courses 
at  the  Massachusetts  Agricultural  College,  and 
she  was  poring  over  the  section  marked, "  Course 
IV,  Section  H.  Soils  and  Tillage."  There  was 
103 


THE   INVADERS 


the  frown  of  intense  preoccupation  between  her 
level  brows,  and  very  much  the  air  of  a  busi- 
ness woman  about  her  as  she  sat  in  her  white 
shirtwaist  with  the  neck  turned  in  for  coolness 
and  the  sleeves  rolled  high  as  if  she  were  not 
afraid  of  work.  Presently,  she  let  the  frown  go 
and  reached  into  a  carved  pigeonhole  for  a 
trolley  timetable.  In  the  pigeonhole  next  lay 
an  envelope  bearing  the  blue  and  white  pen- 
nant of  a  transatlantic  steamship.  For  a  mo- 
ment, she  abandoned  the  trolley  table  and 
colored  faintly  as  she  looked  at  the  gay  envelope, 
then  tucked  it  into  her  blouse. 

"  Shan't  I  knead  your  bread  for  you,  dear  ?  " 
Mrs.  Ladd  asked  suddenly  at  the  door.  "  You 
are  trying  to  do  too  many  things.  You  '11  be 
worn  out,  and  then  what  '11  I  do ! "  She  stood 
against  the  garden  background  with  her  hands 
full  of  freshly  cut  lettuce. 

Olivia  sprang  up.  "  Oh,  no,  Mamma  !  Bread 's 
tremendously  interesting.  And  this  time  I  've 
just  got  to  succeed.  After  all,  it 's  no  more  than 
laboratory  work  in  college.  And,  Mamma,  I  've 
looked  it  all  up  about  the  summer  courses  in 
agriculture.  I  'm  going.  It  will  be  no  end  of 
fun." 

They  had  gone  into  the  big  cool  kitchen 
104 


CROP  DOTATION 


and  Mrs.  Ladd  was  washing  the  lettuce  at  the 
sink. 

"  It  's  a  wild  scheme,  Olivia,"  she  said 
abruptly.  "  Take  your  vacation  in  peace.  It 's 
too  late  to  save  the  place.  I  've  been  thinking 
at  it  for  years.  Even  record-breaking  crops 
would  n't  do  it.  And,  besides,  the  mortgage  is 
due  next  June.  With  your  school  work  and  —  " 

Olivia  kneaded  vigorously.  "  Ah,  but  Mamma ! 
Let  me  try.  Think  of  the  adventure  of  it !  And 
if  I  should  succeed  !  If  I  should,  Mamma  !  It 
kills  me  to  think  of  those  lemon  lilies  —  next 
June." 

"  Don't  think  of  them  !  Think  of  your  fu- 
ture —  how  free  you  are  to  make  it  what  you 
please.  Think  of  getting  quite  away  from  all 
the  family  tradition  of  failure.  Fix  your  mind 
on  new  things,  Olivia." 

Olivia  lightly  touched  the  bubbles  on  the 
plump  roll  of  dough.  "  Yes,  Mamma,  — after 
I  quite  fail  with  the  old.  Let  me  try.  Don't  dis- 
courage me.  I  might  succeed  and  make  a  —  a 
break  in  the  tradition.  Then  you  would  n't  — 
would  n't  mind  if  I  did  n't  desert  the  old,  would 
you,  Mamma?" 

"  I  should  n't  ever  mind  anything,  Olivia, 
that  made  your  life  utterly  different  from  mine," 
105 


THE   INVADERS 


she  answered  slowly,  going  to  put  the  lettuce 
on  the  ice. 

As  to  how  she  was  to  succeed,  Olivia  was  by 
no  means  certain  as  she  set  off  that  afternoon 
for  a  tour  of  farm  inspection,  with  Ben,  Dacre's 
setter,  trotting  at  her  heels.  And  yet  she  was 
very  certain  that  she  should  succeed.  Ever  since 
the  night  of  her  mother's  revelations,  she  had 
been  quite  determined  to  save  the  place.  It  had 
never  occurred  to  her  to  question  the  possibility. 
And  after  Major  Welling  had  told  her  the  other 
truth,  it  came  to  her  just  as  simply  and  just  as 
inevitably  that  she  had  another  debt  to  pay.  To 
be  sure,  since  the  orchard  scene,  that  debt  had 
not  seemed  to  her  a  matter  of  dollars  and  cents. 
She  was  going  to  liquidate  that  indebtedness 
with  herself.  And  yet  dollars  and  cents  might 
become  a  very  vital  part  of  even  that  delicate 
obligation  ;  if  Dacre  needed  money  to  go  on 
with  his  studies,  where  was  he  going  to  get  it  if 
not  from  her  ?  She  must  be  ready  for  any  emer- 
gency in  helping  him  to  make  a  man  of  himself. 

All  this  phase  of  the  matter  she  had  reasoned 
out  without  any  uncertainty  or  any  difficulty. 
As  for  practical  details,  she  knew  that  the  dis- 
trict school  would  pay  her  six  hundred  dollars. 
That  would  keep  her  and  her  mother  through 
106 


CKOP  EOTATION 


the  winter  —  if  she  did  n't  buy  any  new  clothes. 
The  next  thing  —  and  the  puzzling  thing  —  was 
to  make  the  place  begin  to  pay.  She  had  heard 
of  winter  wheat  and  fall  cabbage  and  late  spin- 
ach. Why  should  n't  their  rich  old  fields  pro- 
duce winter  wheat  and  fall  cabbage  and  late 
spinach  ?  After  the  years  and  years  that  they 
had  been  under  cultivation,  surely  they  must  be 
in  fine  condition  to  produce.  And  then  she  in- 
dulged herself  with  a  wild  and  lovely  vision  of 
the  old  place  a  year  from  then,  of  every  field's 
being  green  with  the  promise  of  a  record-break- 
ing crop,  and  then  of  her  going  to  Michael 
Joyce,  and  saying  haughtily  to  him,  "  See,  sir  ! 
See  what  I  am  doing  with  the  place.  You  want 
to  squeeze  all  the  money  you  can  out  of  the 
valley.  Wait  a  year  and  I  '11  pay  you  double  the 
mortgage !  "  She  could  see  herself  perfectly, 
standing  in  his  office  just  as  she  had  stood  three 
weeks  before,  only  with  much  more  hauteur. 
Why  should  n't  it  all  be  possible  ?  The  brutish 
Poles  and  the  ignorant  Irish  were  doing  it. 
Why  should  n't  she,  with  all  her  college  train- 
ing ?  And  now  was  the  very  chance  to  learn 
what  she  did  n't  yet  know,  in  the  summer  school 
of  agriculture.  She  was  already  quite  well  in- 
formed from  her  reading  in  the  village  library, 
107 


THE   INVADERS 


and  felt  perfectly  intelligent  upon  the  subject 
of  crop  rotation,  commercial  fertilizers,  legumes, 
and  disk  harrows. 

It  was  with  the  idea  of  studying  crop  rota- 
tion that  she  sallied  forth  that  afternoon,  with 
the  willing  Ben  as  protector.  She  carried  a 
small  notebook  and  pencil  and  she  was  going 
to  study  out  each  field,  its  soil  and  exposure, 
and  then  decide  what  crop  would  make  the  best 
beginning  in  the  cycle.  After  all,  college  train- 
ing was  a  help  in  every  kind  of  occupation. 

It  was  very  still  and  very  hot.  The  garden 
was  drooping  and  the  fields  shimmered.  She 
had  left  her  mother  trying  to  keep  cool  on  the 
sofa  in  the  dark  parlor,  with  a  palmleaf  fan 
over  her  face.  She  had  drawn  down  Olivia's  face 
and  given  her  a  long  kiss  when  she  came  in  to 
announce  that  she  and  Ben  were  going  to  find 
a  cool  place  by  the  brook  in  the  high  pasture. 
And  Olivia  was  trying  to  drive  away  the  little 
pang  left  by  that  kiss  with  a  very  scientific  con- 
templation of  the  soil,  as  she  climbed  the  path 
and  Ben  ran  up  and  down  and  in  and  out  after 
a  rabbit. 

Presently  something  besides  soil  arrested  her 
glance  in  the  path  ahead  of  her.  It  was  a  small 
piece  of  white  paper  pierced  in  each  corner  with 
108 


CROP   ROTATION 


a  small  round  hole,  which  instantly  proclaimed 
it  as  belonging  to  somebody's  Harvard  folder. 
Olivia  picked  it  up  and  beheld  upon  it,  written 
in  a  fine,  scholarly  hand,  these  words  :  "  One  of 
the  most  serious  problems  on  American  irrigated 
lands  is  that  of  organic  matter  supply.  As  long 
as  these  lands  remain  relatively  cheap  and  the 
farm  units  are  not  too  small,  a  rotation  of  crops 
can  be  used."  This  interesting  statement  was 
followed  by  an  elaborate  series  of  mathematical 
formulae  calculating  the  amount  of  organic 
matter  needed  in  such  and  such  acreage  under 
such  and  such  conditions. 

She  read  it  and  then  re-read  it.  It  was  pleas- 
ant to  realize  that  she  could  understand  it,  that 
is,  almost  all  of  it.  The  expression  "farm  units" 
was  somewhat  misleading.  Probably  some  young 
farmer  bent  on  just  such  an  errand  as  herself 
had  dropped  the  paper.  She  put  it  between  the 
pages  of  her  own  little  notebook  and  climbed 
the  fence  into  the  high  pasture. 

She  had  been  right.  There  was  a  little  breeze 
in  the  high  pasture.  She  felt  it  as  soon  as  she 
landed  among  the  mulleins  and  fern  on  the 
other  side  of  the  fence.  But,  strange  to  say, 
the  breeze  was  announcing  itself  by  a  little 
sport  with  another  small  leaf  of  folded  paper, 
109 


THE   INVADERS 


blowing  it  in  and  out  of  the  fern  and  whisking 
it  quite  over  the  tops  of  the  mulleins.  Olivia, 
hot  in  pursuit,  finally  caught  it,  and  read,  in 
the  same  scholarly  writing,  these  words :  "  The 
keeping  of  hogs  and  cattle  not  only  materially 
reduces  household  expenses,  but  provides  an 
unfailing  supply  of  organic  matter  for  the  en- 
richment of  impoverished  soil."  Then  followed 
more  intricate  formulae  and  more  carefully 
worked-out  problems. 

The  idea  was  new  to  her,  and  yet  how  per- 
fectly obvious.  She  seated  herself  on  a  boulder 
in  a  tuft  of  birches  and  re-read  the  lines.  Ben, 
with  lolling  tongue,  came  up  and  stretched  him- 
self at  her  side,  looking  up  with  inquiring  eyes. 

"  Why,  of  course,  old  fellow  !  "  she  said,  pat- 
ting his  head.  "  And  you  can  drive  up  the 
cows,  like  the  shepherd  dogs  in  Scotland." 

Prosaic  as  was  her  thought,  she  made  a  ro- 
mantic picture  sitting  on  her  boulder  among 
the  glinting  white  birches.  She  wore  the  very 
same  white  gown  in  which  she  had  kneaded  her 
bread,  and  the  leaf  shadows  dappled  her  bare 
neck  and  bare  arms. 

"  Of  course,  I  could  n't  tell  how  many  cows 
and  pigs  until  I  know  just  how  many  fields 
I  '11  cultivate,"  she  was  calculating. 
110 


CROP  ROTATION 


To  Mr.  Patrick  Joyce,  coming  across  the 
pasture  looking  for  the  missing  leaves  of  his 
notebook,  she  was  so  pleasant  to  behold  that 
he  was  quite  content  to  let  the  wind  have  them 
while  he  stood  behind  a  cedar  watching  her, 
and  effacing  himself  that  he  might  not  startle 
her.  But  just  as  he  amazedly  beheld  her  pon- 
dering the  very  leaves  for  which  he  was  search- 
ing, Ben  started  up  on  a  sudden  rabbit  mem- 
ory, and  dashed  around  the  very  tree  that  hid 
him. 

At  Ben's  sharp,  surprised  bark,  not  at  all  a 
rabbit  bark,  she  looked  up  and  paled  a  little. 

"Ben!"  she  called.  "What  is  it?  Not  a 
snake?" 

Joyce  stepped  somewhat  guiltily  out  into  the 
path.  Her  look  of  fear  changed  to  one  of  an- 
noyance. 

"  Oh,"  she  exclaimed,  "  it  'a  you ! " 

"  Yes,"  he  admitted,  with  a  shamefacedness 
that  displeased  him  in  himself.  Why  should  n't 
it  be  he,  pray  ?  "  Yes,  it  is  I.  And  you  will 
forgive  my  startling  you.  Sure,  it 's  not  the  bit 
of  an  idea  I  had  you  were  here."  Now  he  was 
coloring  furiously,  and  his  brogue  you  could 
cut  with  a  knife. 

"  And  I,"  she  said,  with  a  faint  smile,  —  "I 
111 


THE   INVADERS 


had  not  the  smallest  idea  you  were  here.  I 
came  up  here  to  study  —  to  study  crop  rota- 
tion." 

"  My  word ! "  he  cried.  "  It  is  that  I  was 
doing.  And  when  I  went  studying  as  I  was 
walking,  out  of  me  folder  dropped  two  leaves. 
It  was  for  those  I  was  looking,  coming  back  here 
startling  y'."  He  had  drawn  nearer  and  stood 
bareheaded  in  the  hot  sunshine.  He  was  warm 
after  his  climb  up  the  hill,  and  carried  his  coat 
over  his  arm  and  had  upon  his  brow  beads  of 
honest  perspiration.  But  the  fact  that  he  stood 
with  his  head  bared  in  this  knightly  fashion 
made  him  suddenly  an  interesting  figure. 

"  Are  these  perhaps  they,  your  lost  notes  ?  " 
she  said,  with  an  unmistakable  smile.  "  I  read 
them.  Do  you  mind  ?  " 

"  And  why  should  I  mind,  indeed  !  It  is  very 
glad  I  am  that  you  would  read  them."  He  was 
sure  that  never  before  had  his  brogue  been  so 
annoying. 

"  Oh,  thank  you !  They  were  very  —  very 
suggestive,  and  I  got  an  idea  from  them."  She 
held  them  out  and  he  came  to  take  them.  Ben 
had  thrown  himself  in  the  path  between, 
breathing  hard  after  his  fruitless  run. 

"  It 's  happy  I  am  that  y'  found  anything  in- 
112 


CROP   ROTATION 


teresting  there.  Was  it  perhaps  the  idea  of  ir- 
rigating this  pasture  from  the  throut  brook  and 
planting  it  out  in  fall  cabbages  ?  " 

If  she  had  been  more  of  a  farmer  or  even 
just  a  closer  observer,  she  would  have  known 
that  he  was  laughing  at  her.  And  it  would 
have  been  quite  easy  to  see  the  twinkle  in  his 
blue  eyes  and  the  little  twitch  at  the  corner  of 
his  very  good-looking  mouth.  A  man  resorts  to 
very  desperate  measures  when  a  woman  has 
kept  him  ill  at  ease  for  ten  minutes. 

"  Horrors !  Never !  "  she  cried  seriously. 
"  This  beloved  pasture  !  No.  It  was  about  keep- 
ing hogs  and  cattle  that  you  gave  me  the  idea. 
Won't  you  sit  down?  Have  you  ever  tried  it?" 

This  time  he  laughed  aloud  and  she  did,  too. 
"  Oh,  yes,"  he  said.  "  The  sitting  down  I  have 
tried  many  times  in  the  university." 

She  grew  more  formal.  "  Of  course  I  meant 
about  the  hogs  and  the  cattle,  but  it  did  sound 
funny,  didn't  it?  Have  you  ever  tried  keep- 
ing them  ?  " 

He  had  thrown  himself  upon  the  grass  in  the 
long  shadow  of  a  little  cedar.  Engrossed  as  she 
was  in  her  idea,  she  was  vaguely  aware  of  his 
muscular  length  and  of  the  fine  whiteness  of 
his  teeth  as  he  laughed. 
113 


THE   INVADERS 


"  Oh,  no !  Never  have  I  been  a  bit  of  a 
farmer,"  he  said.  "  It  is  to  make  me  a  farmer 
that  my  uncle  has  been  bringing  me  over,  the 
way  I  must  give  up  the  studying  to  be  a  bar- 
rister." He  had  grown  suddenly  very  serious, 
and  there  was  a  little  frown  between  his  brows. 
"  And  it  is  why  I  am  studying  crop  rotation, 
that  I  may  learn  all  about  farming  in  your 
country."  He  seemed  to  have  quite  forgotten 
her  in  the  thought  of  the  changes  of  his  own 
life.  The  thought  was  evidently  not  a  wholly 
cheerful  one. 

Olivia  gave  him  a  quick  glance.  "  And  you 
do  not  quite  like  it  over  here  ?  "  she  asked  with 
a  little  sense  of  noblesse  oblige. 

He  was  looking  away  from  her  at  a  yellow 
butterfly  on  a  mullein,  and  biting  the  end  of  a 
grass  blade. 

"  It  is  what  I  do  not  yet  know,"  he  answered 
thoughtfully,  "  whether  I  will  stay  or  not.  You 
see,  always  I  have  been  used  to  the  sea.  My 
father  was  one  of  the  inspectors  of  fisheries  in 
Galway,  the  way  that  always  I  have  had  my 
own  boat  except  when  I  was  in  Dublin  at  the 
university.  It  is  that  I  keep  missing  since  I 
am  come  here,  the  sea  and  the  cliffs  and  the 
fishermen  at  my  home  in  Leenane.  It  is  quite 
114 


CROP  ROTATION 


different  to  be  here  in  this  valley  with  all  that  is 
strange,  instead  of  at  home  with  the  old  friends 
of  my  father." 

She  had  quite  forgotten  him  in  the  wide,  ro- 
mantic picture  his  half-melancholy  words  were 
drawing  for  her.  "And  your  father  —  "  she 
began. 

"It  is  three  years  since  my  father  was  drowned 
in  the  winter  gales  of  Killery,"  he  said.  "  There 
is  no  one  left  of  us  in  the  old  house  in  Leenane. 
It  is  why  my  uncle  has  been  sending  for  my 
sister  and  me,  that  the  three  of  us  might  be 
together  and  not  with  the  sea  between  us." 

"  At  any  rate,  it  is  fine  that  you  three  can 
be  together,"  Olivia  said  with  sudden  gentle- 
ness. "  It  is  much  easier  not  to  have  some  one 
we  love  on  the  other  side  of  the  water."  And 
she  drew  a  quick  little  breath. 

"  Indeed  it  is  then.  But  there  are  those  that 
I  love  in  the  old  country  and  that  keep  the  half 
of  me  there."  He  sprang  up  as  he  spoke.  "  But 
you  will  excuse  me.  Always  I  do  be  forgetting 
myself  when  there  is  a  chance  of  talking  of  my 
home.  It  is  the  way  a  man  has  in  a  strange 
land."  Suddenly,  a  smile  broke  the  melancholy 
of  his  face.  "  And  it 's  very  glad  I  am  that  you 
will  not  be  thinking  of  planting  out  this  pasture." 
115 


THE  INVADERS 


"  Oh,  no  !  "  she  said.  "  I  cannot  tell  you  how 
dear  to  me  this  pasture  is.  No,  I  am  on  my  way 
to  those  fields  over  there." 

"  Those  fields?  And  it  is  a  great  pity  that  it 
is  so  long  since  they  have  been  growing  any- 
thing, the  way  that  they  have  so  many  weeds. 
I  thank  you  for  finding  my  pages  for  me."  And 
he  was  turning  down  the  hill. 

"  Wait  a  minute  !  "  she  cried,  flushing  hot. 
"  You  were  very  kind  about  the  school.  I  thank 
you  very  much.  And  I  —  I  was  very  rude.  I 
told  Mamma,  and  she  at  once  said  that  I  was 
very  rude.  It  was  unpardonable." 

"  Oh,  not  at  all,"  he  answered  with  a  little 
laugh.  "It  is  quite  as  you  saw  it.  And  why 
should  you  not  say  what  you  think  !  If  some  of 
my  people  have  learned  from  your  people  what 
is  graft  and  what  you  call  wirepulling,  sure  it 
is  right  that  you  should  say  it  is  wrong.  But 
you  will  not  believe  that  it  is  the  way  of  us  all. 
At  home  in  the  old  country  never  have  we 
learned  the  way.  And  I  am  glad  that  you  have 
said  what  you  did,  though  at  first  there  was  the 
least  bit  of  a  hurt." 

Her  impulse  had  been  to  hold  out  her  hand. 
The  little  interlude  of  talk  of  home  had  strangely 
shifted  away  from  him  her  antagonism  for  what 
116 


CROP  ROTATION 


he  stood  for.  But  as  he  answered  her  tentative 
apology,  she  wavered  between  the  old  hate  and 
the  new  tolerance. 

"  At  any  rate,"  she  said,  a  little  coolly,  "  I 
do  thank  you  for  your  promptness,  you  and 
your  uncle.  Good-afternoon !  "  And  she  sat  for 
a  minute  pulling  a  birch  leaf  to  pieces  and  wish- 
ing she  had  been  a  little  less  friendly.  Some- 
how, he  was  good  fun,  and  the  little  nonsense 
at  the  beginning  had  been  pleasant  and  had 
made  her  forget  —  forget  that  he  had  been 
probably  prospecting  on  the  lands  that  were  so 
heavily  mortgaged  to  his  uncle.  No  doubt  he 
had  been  doing  that  very  thing,  planning  how 
he  would  manage  the  farm  when  the  mortgage 
was  foreclosed  the  next  spring.  Perhaps  his 
uncle  was  going  to  give  him  the  place,  for  him 
to  work  out  his  knowledge  upon  it,  and  so  keep 
him  content  in  the  new  country  where  he  so 
much  missed  the  sea.  When  she  finally  got  up 
and  went  on  to  look  at  the  fields  in  which  the 
weeds  were  so  rampant,  her  heart  was  very  bit- 
ter against  the  invaders,  and  she  was  vowing 
that  she  would  wring  from  the  old  place  a  free- 
dom from  their  yoke. 


CHAPTER  X 

BEES    AND    ROSES 

I?:RUNELLA  threw  the  brier  roses  into  the  waste- 
basket  without  a  moment's  hesitation.  The 
remembrance  of  the  raft  episode  did  not  at 
all  incline  her  heart  to  mercy.  However,  the 
thought  of  Miss  Kirk,  the  blind  boarder  who 
depended  upon  fragrances  to  give  her  the  sum- 
mer's colors,  made  her  draw  them  out  and 
put  them  into  the  stone  jar  that  caught  the 
drippings  from  the  yellow  japanned  water- 
cooler.  Only  the  night  before,  Miss  Kirk  had 
felt  her  way  in  from  the  garden  and  said,  ec- 
statically, "How  beautiful  the  roses  are!  I  've 
never  known  them  so  fragrant  before."  And  it 
was  wholly  what  Prunella  knew  that  Miss  Kirk 
would  see  in  the  faint  sweetness  of  those  brier 
roses  that  saved  them  from  the  waste-basket. 
But  it  was  indignation  at  Stefan's  daring  a  sec- 
ond time,  and  wonder  that  Patrick  Joyce  had 
another  thick,  finely  addressed  letter  with  a 
crest  on  its  green  wax  seal,  that  made  Prunella 
thoughtlessly  put "  The  Congregationalist "  into 
Father  Zujewski's  box  and  "  The  Catholic 
118 


I 


BEES   AND  ROSES 


World  "  into  the  box  of  the  Reverend  Doctor 
Barnabas  Britton. 

By  a  pleasant  chance  the  two  clerical  gentle- 
men opened  their  boxes  at  one  and  the  same 
moment :  Father  Zujewski,  big  and  muscular 
and  middle-aged,  in  black  alpaca  coat  and  shiny 
black  straw  hat ;  Dr.  Britton,  stooped  and  thin 
and  white-haired,  but  rosy,  in  linen  duster  and 
white  Panama.  Although  alphabetically  remote, 
the  two  boxes  clicked  open  with  perfect  unan- 
imity. Dr.  Britton's  sunburned  right  hand,  with 
its  worn  gold  ring,  fumbled  inside  and  came  out 
full  of  a  letter  from  John  tramping  through  the 
Scotch  Highlands,  a  picture  postcard  from 
Theodosia  conducting  a  party  of  tourists 
through  Switzerland,  Burpee's  "Fall  Rose  An- 
nouncement," a  circular  of  Totten's  Sanitary 
Communion  Cups — and  "The  Catholic  World." 
Dr.  Britton's  brows  went  up  quite  above  the 
rims  of  his  round,  double-lensed  spectacles,  and 
with  a  twinkle  in  his  eyes  he  turned  towards 
his  reverend  neighbor.  He,  too,  had  his  hands 
full — letters  in  thin,  foreign-looking  envelopes 
postmarked  "  Varsovie,"  a  roll  of  flute  music 
in  a  Schirmer  wrapper,  the  August  number  of 
the  "  Apiarist,"  a  bundle  of  leaflets  of  the 
"  Apostleship  of  Prayer"  and  —  "  TheCongre- 
119 


THE   INVADERS 


gationalist."  Father  Zujewski's  brows  contracted 
in  a  Slavic  frown,  then  relaxed  as  his  round, 
sallow  face  broke  into  a  broad  smile. 

"  Perhaps  —  perhaps  ze  little  postmistress  has 
had  day  dreams,"  he  said  in  his  slow,  unwieldy 
English,  holding  out  "  The  Congregationalist." 

"It's  easier  to  believe  that  it  is  God's  will 
than  that  Prunella  has  had  day  dreams,"  Dr. 
Britton  laughed.  "  I  've  known  her  ever  since 
she  was  born.  She  is  too  practical  to  permit 
herself  dreams,  even  if  they  came  to  her.  Let 
us  call  it  God's  way  of  making  us  know  each 
other  better.  Keep  it  and  read  it." 

"  Or  often,  long  ago,  has  not  God  spoken 
His  will  through  dreams ! "  the  other  exclaimed. 
"  So  either  way  it  iss  His  will.  Gladly  I  keep 
ant  read.  And  you  the  same." 

"  Gladly,"  Dr.  Britton  said  genially,  putting 
"  The  Catholic  World "  into  his  deep  pocket. 
"  How  are  the  bees  these  days  of  blossom  ?  " 

They  had  snapped  their  boxes  shut  and  were 
going  down  the  post-office  steps  together,  out 
into  the  shady  street.  Prunella,  vigorously  post- 
marking letters,  thump,  thump,  looked  up  as 
the  door  banged  shut. 

"Well!"  she  exclaimed.  "Dr.  Britton 's 
hard  up,  I  must  say ! " 

120 


BEES  AND   EOSES 


"The  day  lonk  are  zey  busy,  ze  little  fel- 
lows," the  priest  was  answering.  "  All  over  for 
zem  iss  much  sweet.  And  from  your  roses  zey 
steal." 

"  Oh,  I  see  them  in  the  garden,  royal  chaps 
in  their  black  and  yellow  !  But  you  give  back 
all  the  sweetness  they  steal,  in  your  flute  music." 

The  other  colored  like  a  boy.  "  You  hear  me 
play  ? "  he  said.  "  So  far  it  goes,  ze  noise  I 
mek?" 

"  Oh,  yes !  And  I  love  to  hear  it.  It  comes 
right  up  from  your  study  to  mine,  these  still, 
hot  days.  And  sometimes  there  is  a  piano  with 
you — a  wonderful  piano." 

"It  is  ze  boy  Stefan.  A  great  gift  he  has 
of  God.  But  to  mek  money  he  has  no  gift. 
And  he  iss  not  happy." 

"  A  gift  like  his  does  not  usually  bring  hap- 
piness," Dr.  Britton  said.  "  It  is  too  great  for 
happiness,  because  it  has  in  it  all  emotion,  all 
experience.  I  can  feel  it.  But  your  flute  !  When 
I  hear  that  I  seem  to  be  in  Greece,  on  some 
sunny  slope,  with  the  sheep." 

The  priest  sighed.  "I — I  feel  myself  in  my 
own  land,  wiz  its  sorrows.  Zat  is  why  I  play  — 
not  to  forget." 

They  had  come  to  the  gate  in  the  high  old 
121 


THE  INVADERS 


evergreen  hedge.  Within,  the  white,  green- 
shuttered  parsonage  looked  out  rather  unsmil- 
ingly. 

Dr.  Britton  pushed  open  the  gate.  "Come 
in  and  have  a  little  smoke,"  he  said.  "Your 
country  and  your  people  have  fascinated  me 
ever  since  I  was  a  boy  in  school  and  studied 
history.  Come  in !  I,  too,  am  a  celibate  since 
my  wife's  death  five  years  ago." 

"Not  now  can  I  come  in.  Some  uzzer  time. 
Stefan  —  he  waits  for  me.  What  you  read  in 
history,  zat  iss  what  I  not  let  myself  to  forget. 
So  I  play  —  to  remember." 

"  It  is  a  very  sadly,  splendid  story,  your  coun- 
try's," the  other  said  thoughtfully,  leaning  on 
the  gate.  Warm  as  the  afternoon  was,  he  was 
in  no  hurry  to  shut  himself  into  his  cool,  green- 
shaded  study,  with  his  palmleaf  fan  and  his 
glass  of  iced  tea  and  his  sermon  on  "  The  En- 
emy within  Our  Gates."  Somehow,  it  had  quickly 
occurred  to  him  that  the  man  he  was  talking  to 
could  furnish  him  with  very  first-hand  material 
for  his  discourse.  It  was  at  best  a  delicate  and 
difficult  subject,  this  setting-forth  to  his  dwin- 
dled congregation  of  the  menace  to  the  old  reli- 
gious order  in  the  full  numbers  pouring  into 
the  low,  brown  frame  church  every  Sunday,  at 
122 


BEES   AND   ROSES 


the  ringing  of  the  tinny  bell  in  its  cross-tipped 
spire.  So,  under  the  play  of  his  genial  and  half- 
idle  talk,  he  was  on  the  alert  to  study  and  to 
understand  this  Polish  priest.  At  any  moment, 
perhaps,  in  the  course  of  their  conversation, 
there  might  be  said  the  very  thing  that  would 
give  the  key  to  the  mystery  in  the  new  order 
of  things.  He  would  have  been  very  glad  if  his 
invitation  had  been  accepted  and  he  had  been 
permitted  to  order  another  glass  of  iced  tea 
and  set  forth  cigars  on  the  smoking-table. 

"But  ze  end  —  how  bitter!"  the  other  was 
exclaiming.  "In  books,  it  sound  big,  ze  story 
of  my  land.  But  in  life — it  iss  death!"  And 
he  pushed  back  his  shiny  black  straw  hat  and 
mopped  his  hot  face  with  a  bright  blue  cotton 
handkerchief. 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  the  end  of  your  history 
has  not  yet  come,"  Dr.  Britton  went  on,  his 
gracious  voice  grown  somewhat  musing.  "  To 
me,  you  are  making  history  in  this  country. 
Poland  has  seen  but  the  beginning."  He  was 
pleased  with  his  point  of  view.  Until  now,  in 
voicing  it,  he  had  not  known  that  he  had  ac- 
cepted as  his  point  of  view  so  tolerant  an  out- 
look. "God's  ways  are  mysterious.  No  doubt 
your  people  are  bringing  to  us  what — what  we 
123 


THE   INVADERS 


ourselves  are  in  need  of  —  and  just  when  we 
need  it."  He  felt  that  he  was  making  distinct 
progress  in  his  sermon. 

"  Perhaps — perhaps  it  iss  what  you  say,"  the 
priest  answered  slowly,  as  if  he  too  were  follow- 
ing an  undercurrent  of  thought.  "  But  —  hut 
how  if  my  people  get  here  from  your  people 
what  for  zem  iss  not  good  ?  To  mek  big  money 
—  to  dress  fine  —  it  iss  what  zey  learn  right 
away." 

Dr.  Britton  opened  the  gate  a  little  wider. 
That  was  a  capital  point  for  his  sermon  —  the 
force  of  example.  "  Why,"  he  said,  "  that  is  un- 
fortunately the  tendency  of  the  age.  It  's  a  ma- 
terial age,  whatever  the  country  or  the  people. 
And  we  —  you  and  I  —  it 's  —  it's  up  to  us,  as 
the  boys  say,  to  stand  against  it.  You'd  better 
come  in  and  have  a  smoke." 

"Not  today,  pleace!  You  hear  him  play? 
See  already  he  tired  to  wait  so  long.  Good-bye  ! 
What  you  say  it  iss  true.  Much  prayer  iss 
needed."  And  he  turned  and  went  down  the 
walk  towards  the  wild  Polish  folk-song  that  rang 
out  from  the  windows  of  the  little  house  next 
the  ugly  little  church. 

In  going,  he  met  Olivia  coming  up,  with  an 
armful  of  books,  and  a  bunch  of  faded  clover 
124 


BEES  AND   ROSES 


and  orchard  grass  and  timothy.  To  him  she  was 
a  new  and  unfamiliar  figure  in  the  village  streets 
and  a  not  especially  gracious  or  kindly  one. 

"  Oh,  Dr.  Britton  !  "  she  called.  "  How  nice 
and  cool  and  undusty  you  look  in  there ! "  She 
stopped  and  leaned  on  the  gate  in  the  shade  and 
waited  for  him  to  come  and  hold  out  his  hand. 

"  Well !  Dropped  from  heaven,  did  you  !  "  he 
said.  "Come  in  and  rest  and  get  some  roses. 
It 's  hot  enough  for  a  storm." 

"  No,  I  must  n't  stop,"  she  answered,  pushing 
her  hat  back  from  the  moist  rings  of  hair  on 
her  brow.  "  Mamma  always  waits  luncheon  for 
me  now  that  I  'm  going  to  school  again.  I  just 
wanted  to  sniff  your  cedar  and  —  and  see  some- 
thing that  hasn't  changed,"  she  finished  almost 
bitterly. 

"  And  you  think  me  a  rock  of  permanence ! " 
he  laughed.  "  Why,  Olivia,  things  are  whirling 
so  fast  around  me  that  sometimes  —  sometimes  I 
can't  tell  which  is  moving,  the  other  people  or  I." 

"I  can  tell,  Dr.  Britton.  It's  not  you.  You 
are  just  the  same  as  you  were  when  I  was  a  little 
girl  and  stood  on  the  cushions  in  the  pew  so 
that  you  could  see  I  had  come  to  church.  For 
goodness'  sake,  don't  even  suggest  that  you 
are  n't  just  the  same." 

125 


THE   INVADERS 


"  I  am  —  quite  the  same,"  he  said  in  a  lower, 
graver  tone.  "  You  can  depend  on  me,  you  and 
your  mother,  just  as  you  always  have  done, 
Olivia.  But  you  are  so  efficient,  so  independent, 
you  can  stand  quite  unsupported." 

"  Can  I !  "  she  exclaimed  with  a  little  laugh. 
"  For  Mamma's  sake  I  'm  making  a  huge  bluff. 
But  then  I  am  going  to  pay  off  that  mortgage. 
I  'm  going  to  if  I  die  doing  it !  The  place  shan't 
go  out  of  the  family  —  to  the  Irish." 

"  You'll  do  it!  I  have  n't  a  doubt  of  it.  And 
you  're  getting  a  lot  of  practical  information  up 
at  the  Agricultural  College?  Things  you  can 
put  to  use  right  away  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes !  To-day  we  had  timothy  and  clover 
and  orchard  grass.  See !  "  And  she  held  up  her 
wilted  bunch.  "  I  never  dreamed  of  all  the  dif- 
ferences. And  clover  is  just  the  thing  for  some 
of  our  worn-out  fields.  But  even  into  the  Agri- 
cultural College,  the  Irish  have  intruded.  There 
isn't  a  corner  without  them." 

He  was  thinking  how  safe  it  was  to  count 
upon  her  success,  this  vigorous,  brilliant,  well- 
prejudiced  young  woman  whom  he  had  seen 
grow  up.  She  herself  was  the  very  finest  type 
of  the  order  that  was  passing,  except,  perhaps, 
in  her  religious  outlook.  It  would  not  be  so  safe 
126 


BEES   AND   ROSES 


to  count  upon  her  orthodoxy  as  upon  her  suc- 
cess in  running  the  farm.  After  all,  she  too  was 
in  the  current  of  change,  bitter  as  were  her 
prejudices. 

"  Any  Irish  from  here  ?  "  he  questioned,  fol- 
lowing her  thought.  "It's  the  best  place  for 
them  to  go,  ill-prepared  as  they  have  been  for 
farming  in  their  miserable  country."  As  he 
spoke,  the  flute  and  the  piano  sent  a  plaintive 
melody  up  from  the  little  brown  rectory. 

"  That  Patrick  Joyce  is  there,"  she  said.  "I 
can  hardly  endure  it  —  to  see  him  learning 
how  to  run  —  to  run  our  farm  —  if  I  fail !  But 
I  will  not  fail ! "  And  she  gathered  up  her 
books  and  her  faded  specimens.  "  I  don't  think 
Mamma  believes  that  I  shall  not  fail,"  she 
added.  "Do  come  and  see  her,  Dr.  Britton,  and 
make  her  believe." 

He  took  her  hand.  "  Your  mother  is  too  — 
too  tired  of  hoping  to  have  any  faith,"  he  said. 
"  With  her,  love  is  all  that  is  left.  But  wait. 
You'll  give  her  a  new  faith  when  you  suc- 
ceed. Good-bye,  if  you  won't  come  in  for  some 
roses." 

"  Good-bye !  Be  sure  to  come !  It 's  done  me 
good  to  talk."  And  she  turned  to  go. 

"  Oh,  wait  a  minute  !  "  he  cried.  "  Any  news 
127 


THE  INVADEKS 


from  Dacre?  I  haven't  had  a  line.  Is  he  all 
right?" 

Her  delicate  color  grew  a  shade  deeper  under 
the  heat.  "  We  Ve  heard  several  times,  strange 
to  say.  Dacre  hates  to  write  so.  He 's  in  Paris 
—  quite  happy  —  and  hard  at  work." 

"  Poor  boy  !  I  wish  he  had  your  courage  and 
industry  —  and  pride." 

"Perhaps  he  has,"  she  said,  a  little  pinker 
still.  "  He 's  never  had  a  chance  before.  This  is 
the  first  thing  he  has  really  liked.  Good-bye !" 

Back  in  the  green-shaded  study,  the  music 
came  in  passionate  snatches  through  the  hot 
quiet  of  the  afternoon.  Bees  hummed  in  the 
woodbine  around  the  windows.  It  was  not  a 
good  time  for  sermon-writing,  full  as  his  mind 
was  of  contrasts,  consequences,  warnings.  In- 
stead, he  leaned  back  in  his  big  leather  chair 
and  cut  the  pages  of  "  The  Catholic  World." 
But  as  he  snipped  and  the  music  came  and 
went,  he  was  thinking  of  Dacre  and  Olivia,  the 
little  children  he  had  baptized  not  so  many 
years  before.  They  were  in  the  very  van  of  the 
defense  against  the  new  order  of  things.  But 
after  all,  in  the  light  of  their  family  history,  who 
had  let  down  the  gates  to  the  invaders?  That 
was  a  large  and  significant  point  in  the  situation. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE    MAGIC    OF    THE    MOON 

AT  happened  that  very  night  that  Mr.  Patrick 
Joyce,  of  the  invading  army,  found  himself 
most  delightfully  and  unexpectedly  in  the  posi- 
tion of  a  spy.  Made  pensive  by  the  thick  letter 
with  the  green  seal  and  the  British  stamp, 
which  Prunella  had  put  half  grudgingly  into 
his  post-office  box,  he  had  gone  for  a  stroll  in 
the  moonlight.  He  had  sauntered  as  far  as  the 
high  pasture,  and  with  the  letter  in  his  pocket 
and  his  pipe  in  his  mouth,  he  had  sat  for  an 
hour  or  so  on  the  identical  boulder  on  which 
his  haughty  enemy,  Miss  Ladd,  had  sat  at  their 
recent  interview.  Below  him  lay  the  dark  mass 
of  the  village  trees,  the  white  spire  of  the 
meeting-house,  the  light  and  dark  of  roof-lines 
in  and  out  of  shadow,  and  beyond,  the  silver 
curve  of  the  river  around  the  old  Welling 
place.  It  was  very  lovely,  the  scene  and  the 
sweet  air,  but  there  was  an  ache  in  his  heart 
for  the  old  country.  Her  letter  had  made  the 
ache.  They  were  out  much  in  the  boats,  Aileen 
said,  and  the  salmon  leaping  and  the  lads  busy 
129 


THE   INVADERS 


•with  the  hauling,  and  they  missing  him  and 
Bride.  It  was  Aileen's  way  to  say  that  the  lads 
were  missing  him  and  Bride,  but  he  knew  ! 
And  after  the  gales  of  the  day  before  the  shore 
was  all  red  and  shining  with  the  seaweed,  and 
the  smell  was  that  sweet !  And  Brian  Desmond 
was  back  from  the  trout-fishing  in  Glen  Inagh, 
and  he  was  after  bringing  her  a  little  deer,  and 
she  was  after  tying  a  ribbon  around  the  sweet 
creature's  neck  and  naming  him  Pat !  He  was 
a  darlin'  and  him  coming  to  lick  her  hand  and 
ate  cake  from  her  palm.  And  they  were  after 
going  to  a  dance  over  at  Ballynahinch,  the 
twelve  of  them,  and  coming  home  they  were 
caught  in  a  shower  —  faith,  a  drenching  like 
the  deluge  !  And  she  had  been  missing  him  at 
the  dance,  the  way  that  Rory  and  Mike  and 
Jim  had  to  keep  her  dancing  to  stop  the  ache  at 
her  heart  —  and  so  on  and  so  on  !  And  she  was 
trying  to  stop  spaking  the  brogue,  the  way  that 
when  he  came  to  bring  her  with  him  to  America 
he  would  not  be  ashamed. 

Ashamed  of  her  !  What  would  n't  he  give  to 
hear  her  sweet  brogue  and  see  the  dimples  in 
the  cheeks  of  her  !  What  would  n't  he  give  to 
have  her  there  to  show  all  those  proud,  cold 
Yankee  people  who  seemed  to  think  that  in 
130 


THE  MAGIC   OF  THE  MOON 

Ireland  there  were  only  servants  and  folk  of 
low  birth  and  no  education.  Would  n't  it  be  a 
great  day  for  him  if  he  could  have  Aileen  by 
his  side  in  the  automobile  and  let  every  one  see 
a  real  Irish  beauty  —  Aileen  with  her  hair  like 
the  gold  of  the  gorse  and  her  eyes  as  deep  and 
brown  as  the  pools  in  Bealanabrack !  And  then 
the  highbred  air  of  her  with  all  the  gentleness  ! 
He  would  like  to  be  showing  that  proud  Miss 
Ladd  an  Irish  gentlewoman. 

So  he  sat  in  the  moonlight,  smoking  and 
dreaming,  and  presently  got  up  and  sauntered 
down  through  the  fields  to  the  village.  Ten 
o'clock  had  just  struck.  The  houses  were  all 
asleep  except  the  Ladd  house.  There  the  soft 
light  of  the  Chinese  hall  lamp  met  the  moon- 
light at  the  open  front  door,  and  there  was  the 
creak  of  a  rocking-chair  on  the  front  stoop. 
And  just  as  Joyce  turned  from  the  field  path 
into  the  street,  a  girl's  very  wideawake  voice 
called  from  within,  — 

"  I  've  finished  those  fertilizer  tables,  Mamma. 
And  now  I  must  water  the  young  cabbages  be- 
fore I  go  to  bed.  They  're  all  drying  up.  No. 
You  sit  still.  I  '11  do  it." 

Her  words  reminded  him  that  he  had  not 
studied  the  fertilizer  tables,  and  no  doubt  he 
131 


THE  INVADERS 


would  have  hurried  on  and  turned  from  dreams 
to  tillage  problems,  had  she  not  at  that  moment 
come  to  the  door  and  stood  against  the  light  in 
her  soft  white  gown.  She  was  n't  unlike  Aileen 
in  her  slimness  and  the  long  lines  of  her  figure. 
But  then  Aileen  had  the  litheness  and  grace  of 
a  white  birch  tree  in  Glen  Erriff.  At  any  rate, 
he  found  himself  slowing  up  in  his  walk,  and 
looking  with  some  interest  through  the  breaks 
in  the  ragged  hedge,  as  she  came  down  the 
steps  and  went  round  the  corner  of  the  house 
nearest  him.  For  a  moment  he  lost  sight  of  her, 
but  he  heard  the  rattle  of  the  watering-can, 
and  then,  presently,  the  chug  of  the  pump. 
Hard  though  his  heart  was  against  her,  the 
gallant  Irish  soul  of  him  almost  sent  him  fly- 
ing round  to  the  gate  and  up  to  save  her  from 
the  weight  of  the  water  she  was  having  to 
carry.  It  was  hard  work  she  was  doing,  pump- 
ing and  carrying  when  all  the  rest  of  the  vil- 
lage were  asleep.  But  she  was  a  plucky  one  — 
and  a  proud  one !  And  then  he  stood  quite  still 
in  the  shadow  and  watched  for  her  to  come 
again  into  his  line  of  vision.  When  she  did  re- 
appear, it  was  only  in  shadow  on  the  moonlit 
white  wall  of  the  old  mansion.  She  herself 
was  beyond  the  narrow  glimpse  afforded  him 
132 


THE   MAGIC  OF  THE  MOON 

through  the  break  in  the  hedge.  Faith,  it  was 
like  peeping  at  fairies  to  see  the  airy  double  of 
her  swaying  and  bending  and  spraying  there  in 
the  warm,  sweet  silence  of  the  night.  So  full 
was  the  moon  and  so  faithful  the  reflection  that 
he  could  see  every  smallest  curl  broken  loose 
from  her  braids,  the  soft  curves  of  her  figure 
through  the  gown  she  held  wrapped  close  to 
avoid  a  wetting,  the  feathery  shadow  of  the 
falling  water  as  she  curved  arm  and  wrist  and 
held  high  her  watering-pot.  So  still  it  was  that 
the  swish  of  the  drops  on  the  young  cabbages 
was  quite  audible,  and  the  contact  of  can  and 
pump  as  she  came  and  went  seemed  to  break 
into  a  sort  of  enchantment. 

"  Sure,  it 's  a  pity  that  it 's  cabbages  and  not 
roses  and  lilies  and  wallflowers  in  so  lovely  a 
scene  !  "  he  whispered  to  himself. 

And  then,  as  he  whispered,  he  heard  the  soft 
slam  of  a  back  door,  and  she  came  no  more. 
The  creaking  chair  on  the  front  stoop  had  long 
since  been  hushed,  and  in  a  moment  the  front 
door  went  to  and  the  light  out  in  the  old  fan 
above  the  door  frame.  Up  stairs  on  the  east 
side,  candlelight  flared  softly  in  the  front  cham- 
ber ;  then  the  curtains  were  drawn  and  the  gar- 
den was  left  to  the  moonlight. 
133 


THE   INVADERS 


"  Faith,  it 's  her  shadow  I  'm  liking  better  than 
herself  !  "  he  said  softly  as  he  relighted  his  pipe 
and  went  on  towards  home.  "  And,  poor  child, 
she  need  n't  be  killing  herself  with  the  work. 
Uncle  Mike  has  a  heart  in  him." 

It  was  the  same  moon  twenty-four  hours  older 
that  tempted  Olivia  to  join  a  group  on  the 
meeting-house  steps  as  she  came  home  from 
getting  the  late  mail  and  from  loitering  along 
with  Prunella  under  the  elms.  Prunella  had  had 
much  to  say,  scornful  as  she  was  of  her  aunt's 
recent  departure  from  every  family  tradition 
and  principle,  in  a  visit  to  the  Welling  place  to 
see  how  things  looked  and  to  hear  that  young 
Posadowski  play. 

"  Aunt  Lou  did  n't  see  a  thing  of  the  Chip- 
pendale table  she  pretended  she  went  to  see 
about,"  Prunella  had  said.  "  Of  course  Millicent 
Chappell  took  it  with  all  the  other  old  trash  — 
or  else  the  Polanders  burnt  it  for  kindling  wood. 
Why  not  ?  If  there  's  one  thing  I  hate  it 's  old 
furniture.  Life  's  full  enough  of  memories  and 
things  without  having  the  very  chair  you  sit  in 
haunted,  besides  being  shaky  in  the  legs." 

"  Oh,  Prunella !  How  can  you  !  And  did 
Miss  Hollins  say  that  everything  is  changed, 
quite  changed  ?  " 

134 


THE  MAGIC   OF  THE  MOON 

"  Absolutely  !  Ploughs  and  hoes  and  rakes 
in  the  war-room,  and  tubs  and  a  washing-ma- 
chine in  the  dining-room.  And  chickens  in  the 
front  hall,  Olivia,  pecking  around  and  making 
themselves  perfectly  at  home  !  Hideous,  is  n't 
it !  But  the  parlor  was  all  right —  that  is,  quite 
empty  except  for  the  piano  and  the  curtains." 

"  And  did  he  play  for  her  without  its  killing 
her,  Prunella  ?  Does  he  know  anything  at  all 
about  music  ?  " 

"Killing  her  !  "  Prunella  exclaimed  in  a  dif- 
ferent tone.  "  Why,  Aunt  Lou  says  he  's  a  per- 
fect genius.  Aunt  Lou  has  heard  Blind  Tom 
and  she  says  Stefan  Posadowski  plays  much 
better.  He  played  something  about  a  polonaise, 
by  one  of  his  own  people,  and  Aunt  Lou  says 
it  was  glorious  —  that  it  made  her  want  to 
dance  or  fight  or  die  or  do  something.  Imagine 
Aunt  Lou  dancing  or  fighting !  "  And  Prunella 
laughed,  and  then  grew  suddenly  silent. 

"  I  must  go  on  home,"  Olivia  said.  "Mamma 
will  be  waiting.  Can't  you  walk  a  little  farther, 
Prunella?" 

They  were  in  the  shadow  of  the  lilac  bushes 

in  Mrs.  Archibald's  yard.  Prunella  put  her  hand 

quickly  on  Olivia's  shoulder.  "  No,  I  can't  go 

any  farther,"  she  answered,  with  a  little  breath- 

135 


THE  INVADERS 


lessness.  "But  I  'm  going  to  say  something, 
Olivia.  We  've  been  friends  always,  have  n't 
we  ?  You  '11  snub  me,  of  course.  But  I  don't 
care.  I  've  got  to  say  it.  You  see,  if  I  were  n't 
postmistress,  I  should  n't  know.  But,  Olivia,  it 
makes  me  afraid  —  so  —  so  many  letters  from 
Dacre  —  and  to  Dacre.  You  're  so  fine  and  he  's 
so  —  so  —  " 

Olivia  drew  quite  away  with  a  little  laugh. 
"  But,  my  dear,  a  postmistress  does  n't  have  to 
make  up  romances  about  the  letters  that  she 
gives  out,"  she  said  with  a  ring  in  her  voice  that 
Prunella  expected.  "  And  if  Mamma  and  I  don't 
help  poor  Dacre,  who  will,  pray  ?  I  never  knew 
there  was  that  side  to  being  postmistress.  It 
must  be  a  bore.  Good-night !  " 

And  then  she  went  on  across  the  street,  and 
Prunella  went  her  way  back  to  see  if  she  had  n't 
left  the  side  window  in  the  post-office  open. 

"  Prunella  was  saucy  and  deserved  a  reproof ," 
Olivia  was  saying  to  herself,  feeling  the  Paris 
letter  in  her  blouse  to  be  sure  it  had  not  fallen 
out.  And,  besides,  such  a  report  had  to  be 
stopped  at  once,  nipped  right  in  the  bud.  It 
would  kill  her  mother.  And  besides  —  besides 
—  no  one  had  a  right  to  say  anything.  Her  life 
was  her  own.  And  what  did  little,  narrow,  hard- 
136 


THE   MAGIC   OF   THE  MOON 

working  Prunella  know  about  life  and  love! 
When  school  opened,  in  a  month,  she  would 
have  Dacre  send  the  letters  there  so  that  Pru- 
nella could  n't  keep  count.  And  anyhow  — 

But  her  bitter  reflections  came  to  a  sudden 
end.  Out  of  the  shadows  of  the  meeting-house 
porch  which  she  was  just  passing,  there  came 
to  her,  in  the  soft  Gaelic  inflection,  words  so 
remote  from  her  thought  that  she  was  startled 
into  stopping  to  hear  more :  — 

"  And  of  the  young  girls  of  Ireland,  Emer 
was  the  one  to  whom  Cuchulain's  heart  was 
going  out,  for  she  had  the  six  gifts  :  the  gift  of 
beauty,  for  she  was  as  beautiful  as  a  lily  on  the 
altar  at  the  Eastertime ;  and  the  gift  of  voice, 
for  her  speaking  was  like  the  waterfalls  in  the 
spring ;  and  the  gift  of  sweet  speech,  for  always 
she  was  saying  what  was  like  honey  in  the  hearts 
of  those  who  heard ;  and  the  gift  of  needlework, 
for  she  sewed  as  fine  as  do  the  little  people  on 
the  gossamers  they  do  be  wearing ;  and  the  gift 
of  wisdom,  for  always  she  went  understanding 
the  meanings  of  things ;  and  the  gift  of  pure- 
ness,  for  her  soul  she  was  keeping  as  white  as 
the  spire  high  above  there  in  the  moonshine. 
And  it  was  in  very  rich  clothes  that  Cuchulain 
was  coming  to  win  Emer  for  his  wife.  His 
137 


THE   INVADERS 


tunic  was  crimson  and  his  shirt  of  finest  white 
silk  embroidered  in  red  gold,  and  his  brooch 
was  of  inlaid  gold.  And  the  Lady  Emer  and 
the  other  young  girls  were  sitting  out  on  the 
green  grass  under  the  shade  of  the  trees  by 
the  side  of  a  silvery  stream,  and  presently  they 
were  hearing  the  creaking  of  the  wheels  of  a 
chariot  and  the  clatter  of  hoofs.  ( Let  one  of 
you  see,'  said  the  Lady  Emer,  'what  is  it  that 
is  coming  towards  us.'  And  the  Lady  Emer's 
heart  was  beating  up  in  her  throat,  and  she 
guessing  who  it  was  that  was  coming  so  brave 
over  the  green  grass." 

Olivia  had  sat  down  behind  one  of  the  big 
columns.  The  surprise  of  the  situation  had 
driven  away  her  irritation.  It  was  Bride  Joyce 
there  on  the  porch,  telling  stories  to  the  village 
children,  to  the  very  children  that  would  come 
to  the  district  school  in  the  fall.  She  could 
quite  plainly  see  their  upturned,  ecstatic  little 
faces,  but  not  the  story-teller;  the  column 
behind  which  Olivia  sat  hid  them  from  each 
other.  However,  it  is  not  likely  there  would 
have  been  a  break  in  the  telling,  even  had  the 
story-teller  known  of  the  addition  to  her  audi- 
ence. Her  tone  was  too  rapt  and  far  away  for 
her  to  be  aware  of  those  who  listened. 
138 


THE  MAGIC   OF  THE  MOON 

"  And  always  you  must  be  remembering  the 
six  gifts,"  she  was  going  on,  "  for  the  girl  who 
has  them  will  be  loved  by  the  holy  angels  them- 
selves. And  so  Cuchulain  got  down  from  his 
chariot  and  came  proud  over  the  green  grass  to 
the  young  girls  and  was  wishing  a  blessing  on 
them.  And  the  Lady  Emer  lifted  up  her  lovely 
face  and  saw  Cuchulain,  and  it  is  what  she 
said  —  " 

A  man  came  round  the  corner  and  stopped 
at  the  steps.  "Bride,"  he  said  gently,  with  a 
little  laugh,  "  is  it  all  night  you  will  be  keeping 
the  little  ones  with  your  tales?" 

"  Faith,  is  it  yourself  ! "  she  laughed  back. 
"  But  I  cannot  stop  here  and  leave  the  young 
girls  staring  at  Cuchulain  and  him  smiling  at 
Emer.  If  you  '11  be  so  good  as  to  wait." 

He  did  not  look  at  Olivia  as  he  sat  down  on 
the  lower  step  and  tossed  away  his  cigar.  When 
the  story  was  in  full  swing  again,  she  got  up 
softly  from  behind  her  column. 

"  I,  too,  have  been  listening,"  she  whispered, 
with  a  friendliness  that  surprised  him,  as  she 
passed.  "  It  is  a  beautiful  story  that  your  sister 
is  telling.  Good-night ! " 

He  sprang  to  his  feet.  "My  sister  will  be 
very  glad  and  very  proud  that  you  will  be 
139 


THE   INVADERS 


thinking  it  is  a  beautiful  story,"  he  answered. 
"  Good-night ! " 

And  she  went  off  down  the  shadowy  old 
street  saying  over  to  herself  the  six  gifts. 

"  And  the  gift  of  sweet  speech,  for  always 
she  was  saying  what  was  like  honey  in  the  hearts 
of  those  who  heard,"  she  recalled.  "  But  then 
Prunella  was  saucy,"  she  added  to  console  her- 
self. "  And  that  day  in  the  town  hall  —  oh, 
dear,  it  was  so  hideous  and  he  was  so  —  so  sur- 
prising." 

Meanwhile,  Prunella  too  was  going  through 
a  process  of  self-reproach.  She  had  found  the 
side  window  closed  and  barred  and  then  had 
run  home  with  a  heavy  heart.  The  house  was 
quite  dark  except  for  the  light  of  a  candle  in 
Miss  Hollins's  room.  Every  night,  before  read- 
ing her  chapter,  Miss  Hollins  put  down,  itemized, 
"  Cakes  made,  —  Money  taken  in,  —  Money 
paid  out."  After  relieving  her  mind  of  these 
important  mundane  matters,  she  turned  to  the 
Psalms  or  Isaiah  or  John. 

When  Prunella  came  in  that  night,  white 
and  stern-lipped,  Miss  Hollins  was  just  at  Isaiah, 
xxvi,  3,  and  a  moth  had  made  the  candle 
sputter. 

"  Aunt  Lou,"  she  said,  tugging  at  her  collar, 
140 


THE   MAGIC   OF  THE   MOON 

"  I  've  made  Olivia  furious.  I  had  to.  I  don't 
care." 

Miss  Hollins  snuffed  the  candle.  "  She  '11  get 
over  it,  Prunella.  When  you  were  children,  she 
was  always  a  little  topping.  She  gets  it  from 
her  mother.  But  she  comes  out  all  right  in  the 
end.  And  she  and  Dacre  are  n't  married  yet." 

"  Oh,  don't,  Aunt  Lou.  Don't  even  say  it. 
It  makes  me  wish  I  'd  gone  on  and  told  her  all. 
She  frightened  me  so.  I'd  just  begun." 

"  All,  Prunella  ?  "  Miss  Hollins  had  taken  off 
her  glasses  and  there  was  a  gentle  youthful  look 
in  her  clear  hazel  eyes.  Down  her  back,  over  the 
blue  kimono,  hung  her  heavy  braids  of  curly, 
gray-tinged  chestnut  hair. 

"  Yes,  Aunt  Lou  —  all !  I  wish  I  had.  I  've 
never  told  you  or  anybody.  Olivia  need  n't  be 
so  satisfied  and  so  sarcastic.  If  she  knew  that 
I  saw,  —  myself,  —  one  night  coming  home  late 
from  the  office,  in  the  spring,  — by  the  fence  in 
the  shade  of  Mrs.  Archibald's  lilac  bushes  just 
where  we  stood  to-night  and  she  was  so  snippy 
—  that  I  saw  Dacre  Welling  kissing  —  yes, 
kissing,  Aunt  Lou,  and  holding  quite  close  in 
his  arms — that  skinny,  brown,  long-eyed  Sofia 
Letchikoff." 

"  Prunella !  Are  you  sure !  " 
141 


THE   INVADERS 


"  Well,  I  did  n't  dream  it,  Aunt  Lou,  and  you 
know  I  never  could  imagine  things.  In  school 
I  never  could.  Now,  do  you  wonder  ?  " 

Quite  suddenly  and  irrelevantly  Miss  Hollins 
laughed.  "  Well,  it 's  a  mercy  Dacre  's  given 
that  way.  It 's  a  relief.  Why,  don't  you  see, 
Prunella  ?  It 's  as  clear  as  day.  If  he  wanted 
to  kiss  and  hug  that  ugly,  snaky  little  creature, 
just  think  what  he  '11  be  up  to  in  Paris.  He  '11 
never  wait  for  Olivia.  Thank  God  ! " 


CHAPTER  XII 

NITROGEN    NODULES 

A.S  a  result  of  the  ploughing  under  of  legumi- 
nous and  other  crops  for  green  manure,  the  pro- 
ductiveness of  the  soil  has  been  greatly  increased. 
The  decomposition  of  vegetable  matter  in  the 
soil  stimulates  desirable  activities  and  corrects 
the  evil  effects  of  the  excessive  use  of  high- 
grade  fertilizers.  Clover,  alfalfa,  soy  beans — " 

Olivia  turned  another  page  in  her  notebook 
and  looked  at  her  watch.  Eleven  thirty-three 
and  desperately  hot.  Seven  minutes  more  of  lec- 
ture, and  then  fertilizer  tables  to  copy  off  the 
board.  The  row  of  chairs  in  front  of  her,  six 
in  number,  were  filled  as  follows  :  Joyce,  P.  D. ; 
Kershaw,  M.  H. ;  Kidder,  S.  R. ;  Kleber,  Maria 
T.;  Klein,  F. ;  Knight,  Isabel  Y. 

Olivia  began  her  row,  just  behind  Joyce,  P.  D., 
in  the  end  seat  by  the  window,  with  the  view 
of  the  hot,  dry  campus,  shaded  at  intervals  by 
splendid  elms,  and  of  the  shallow  pond  with  the 
lily-pads ;  on  beyond,  the  trolley  track,  and  be- 
yond that,  more  sered  campus  and  more  red- 
brick buildings.  The  only  refreshing  thing  in 
143 


THE   INVADERS 


her  range  of  vision  was  the  drinking-fountain, 
with  its  sanitary  plunger,  in  a  circle  of  moist, 
living  green.  Now  and  then  a  student  paused 
and,  from  a  safe  distance  and  with  due  delibera- 
tion, projected  a  cool  draught  into  his  mouth. 

After  a  quite  impersonal,  but  entirely  genial 
good-morning,  Mr.  Joyce  had  absorbed  himself 
wholly  in  the  lecture,  occasionally  making  an- 
swer, with  ready  accuracy,  to  the  problems  in 
fertilization  that  the  lecturer  tossed  off  with 
terrifying  ease.  So  absorbed  was  he  in  calcu- 
lating nitrogen  to  the  acre  that  he  was  oblivious 
of  the  arrival  of  a  minute  grasshopper  upon  the 
shoulder  of  his  white  flannel  coat,  then  upon 
the  collar.  It  was  Olivia's  discovery  of  this  in- 
truder that  brought  her  to  a  full  stop  after 
"  soy  beans."  Should  she  tell  Mr.  Joyce  ?  But 
before  she  could  answer  the  question  and  do 
him  a  favor,  the  grasshopper  removed  himself 
by  a  long  leap  to  the  brim  of  the  Panama  of 
Knight,  Isabel  Y.,  and  Olivia  was  aware  of 
being  tired,  and  looked  at  her  watch. 

Afterwards,  in  the  interval  between  the  lec- 
ture and  the  trolley  that  took  her  home,  a  mat- 
ter of  forty  minutes,  she  found  a  seat  under  a 
thick-leaved  maple,  tagged  with  its  scientific 
name  and  the  date  of  its  planting.  All  around 
144 


NITROGEN  NODULES 


grew  heavy-headed  red  clover,  with  now  and 
then  a  patch  of  fragrant  alsike.  It  was  the  best 
of  opportunities  to  study  the  nitrogen  nodules 
on  the  roots,  she  was  thinking,  reaching  for  a 
specimen.  But  somehow,  in  all  that  shimmer 
and  heat,  her  mind  would  not  occupy  itself  with 
nitrogen  nodules.  There  was  that  Mr.  Joyce 
waiting  for  the  trolley  over  near  the  track.  He 
certainly  did  not  seem  to  be  forcing  his  brain 
into  any  uncongenial  activity.  He  was  prone 
upon  his  back  in  the  shade,  smoking.  All  she 
could  really  see  of  him,  indeed,  was  a  long 
white  line  in  the  crushed  grass,  and  now  and 
then  a  little  blue  cloud  of  smoke.  She  would 
be  just  as  idle  herself.  So  she  threw  herself 
back  and  looked  up  at  the  sky  through  the 
clover-tops  and  the  grass  plumes.  Then  across 
her  thought  floated  a  little  pang.  At  first  she 
did  not  at  once  recognize  it,  there  had  been  of 
late  so  many  pangs  introduced  into  her  experi- 
ence. Then  it  asserted  itself  as  a  Dacre  pang, 
left  by  the  letter  that  had  inspired  Prunella's 
sauciness.  And  yet  it  was  in  no  sense  a  pang- 
making  letter.  On  the  contrary,  it  was  a  very 
gay,  light-hearted  one,  dated  from  a  little  sky 
studio  in  delightful  Rue  Notre  Dame  des  Champs, 
with  its  little  glimpse  of  the  Luxembourg  Gar- 
145 


THE   INVADERS 


dens  over  the  two  snapdragons  and  the  three 
wallflowers  and  the  box  of  mignonette  and  the 
fauvette's  cage.  And  it  was  full  of  dejeuners  at 
Meudon,  of  sketching  in  the  Bois,  of  the  jolly 
models,  of  Alexis  Orloff,  who  had  taken  half 
the  little  apartment  with  him,  and  was  an  old 
Parisian  and  knew  Paris  like  a  book  —  and 
would  take  good  care  of  him !  Quite  innocent 
of  any  pang-making  intent,  surely,  were  Dacre's 
scrawled  pages,  with  their  odor  of  cigarettes ; 
and  quite  loverlike  enough  to  make  her  cheeks 
aspire  to  a  clover  pink  were  the  closely  written 
lines  at  the  end.  But  yet,  somehow,  there  was 
a  disappointment  in  the  letter,  and  she  lay  there 
analyzing  herself,  chiding  herself,  and  then 
planning  over  and  over  the  old  plans  until  Mr. 
Joyce's  gradual  emergence  from  the  grass  just 
in  her  line  of  vision  reminded  her  to  look  at 
her  watch. 

It  was  a  little  annoying  that  he  held  the  trol- 
ley for  her  as  she  ran  breathlessly  up  the  slope, 
and  then  took  her  books  and  helped  her  in,  all 
the  while  confessing  that  he  had  been  quite 
asleep  and  that  sheer  luck  had  awakened  him. 
But  after  he  had  seated  her  and  restored  her 
property,  she  had  no  further  occasion  for  annoy- 
ance ;  for  he  removed  himself  to  the  front  bench 
146 


NITROGEN  NODULES 


with  the  motorman  and  a  small  barefooted  boy 
bearing  a  string  of  fish,  and  presently  seemed 
to  have  forgotten  his  recent  gallantry  in  tender 
and  critical  examination  of  pumpkinseed  and 
perch.  The  small  boy  moved  quite  close  up  to 
him,  and,  from  casual  beginnings,  they  were 
soon  plunged  into  what  appeared  to  be  a  most 
absorbing  conversation.  Animated  it  certainly 
was,  for  they  laughed  much,  and  frequently  the 
motorman  turned  around  and  took  part,  and  the 
conductor  swung  on  the  step  and  joined  in.  Mr. 
Joyce  had  removed  his  hat,  and  as  they  flew 
along  his  crinkled  dark  hair  blew  out  in  quite 
boyish  fashion.  Olivia  watched  the  fireweed  and 
the  daisies  by  the  way  and  thought  of  the  de- 
jeuners at  Meudon  as  she  held  on  her  hat. 

The  arrival  at  the  turnout  by  Ashton  Ponds 
broke  up  the  sociability  on  the  front  seat.  The 
motorman  and  the  conductor  found  surprising 
and  uncomfortable  orders  waiting  for  them  over 
the  telephone.  Forest  fires  had  got  to  the  bridge 
over  Ball's  Creek  and  there  was  n't  safe  pass- 
ing. Men  were  hard  at  work  and  in  an  hour  or 
so — and  so  forth  and  so  forth.  Meanwhile, 
they  were  to  wait  where  they  were. 

And  it  was  by  no  means  a  bad  place  to  wait. 
Not  twenty  feet  from  the  track,  down  through 
147 


THE  INVADERS 


birches  and  reeds  and  rushes,  gleamed  very  cool 
and  fresh  the  softly  lapping  water.  A  boat  was 
beached  there,  and  not  far  away  up  the  shore 
there  was  a  little  cottage.  Beyond  birch  tops, 
the  Ponds  stretched  away  into  the  shadow  of 
the  hills,  darkly  still  and  inviting. 

Olivia  resigned  herself  to  the  inevitable  and 
got  out  her  notebook.  Mr.  Joyce  and  the  boy, 
after  some  parley  with  the  motorman  and  the 
conductor,  clambered  down  the  bank  to  the 
boat  and  stood  looking  and  talking.  Then, 
quite  calmly  and  quite  as  if  he  were  not  doing 
the  most  extraordinary  and  daring  thing  he  had 
ever  done  in  his  life,  Mr.  Joyce  turned  around, 
and,  springing  up  the  bank,  came  over  to  where 
Olivia  sat  pondering  these  inspiring  words : 
"  The  second  plan  of  soil  improvement  is  to  in- 
crease the  humus  content  of  the  soil  by  the  use 
of  more  stable  manure."  She  had  so  little  idea 
of  his  audacious  intention  that  she  did  not  lift 
her  eyes  until  he  stood  at  the  step  and,  raising 
his  hat,  said  quite  simply,  — 

"  The  little  lad  and  I  are  going  out  in  the 
boat,  the  way  it  will  not  seem  so  long  and  so 
hot,  the  wait.  Will  you  not  come  with  us?  He 
is  a  jolly  little  lad." 

The  answer  her  mind  made  to  this  perfectly 
148 


NITEOGEN  NODULES 


commonplace  and  yet  overwhelming  proposal 
was  instantly  resentful.  Then,  quite  suddenly 
and  irrelevantly,  she  remembered  the  "jolly 
models"  and  the  "dejeuners  at  Meudon."  The 
resentment  of  the  remembrance  made  her  color 
rosily  as  she  answered  hesitatingly, — 

"  Why,  yes,  I  suppose  so.  Why  not  ?  Are 
we  to  wait  long  ?  " 

"  We  are,  indeed.  'T  will  be  a  good  hour 
before  we  go.  And  for  myself,  I  cannot  be  so 
near  the  water  and  not  on  it.  And  to  pull  at 
the  oars  will  be  better  than  to  sit  in  the  car  in 
the  heat." 

All  the  while  he  was  helping  her  down  the 
high  step  and  then  holding  her  books  as  she 
sprang  lightly  on  down  among  the  birches  to  the 
boat.  The  small  boy  with  the  fish  had  already 
put  them  under  the  seat,  and  stood  throwing 
stones  at  a  mud  turtle  swimming  a  little  offshore. 
He  was  a  very  freckled,  large-eared,  blue-eyed 
boy,  in  process  of  getting  some  square  white 
teeth. 

"Goin'  to  fish?"  he  said,  in  a  businesslike 
fashion,  as  Joyce  steadied  the  boat  for  Olivia 
to  step  in.  "I  Ve  got  eleven  worms  left.  And 
Potts  up  at  that  cottage,  he  's  got  lines." 

"  Oh,  no,  thank  you !  It  would  hardly  be 
149 


THE  INVADERS 


worth  the  getting  ready  for  so  short  a  time.  If 
we  can  catch  a  bit  of  breeze  in  a  shady  spot,  it 
will  be  luck  enough." 

"  And  anyhow,  have  n't  you  enough  fish  ?  " 
Olivia  laughed  as  she  settled  herself  in  the  stern. 

She  laughed  more  at  herself  than  at  the  lad, 
seeing  herself  in  her  novel  situation.  And  in  a 
way  it  was  quite  a  little  adventure,  going  for 
a  row  with  a  young  Irishman  about  whom  she 
knew  nothing  more  nor  better  than  that  he  had 
a  picturesque  sister  who  told  unusual  stories, 
and  that  his  uncle  held  every  foot  of  her  own 
old  home  on  a  heavy  mortgage.  It  was  truly  a 
situation  that  was  full  of  romantic  suggestion 
as  well  as  of  practical  opportunity.  It  would  be 
no  waste  of  time  to  be  gracious  to  the  family 
to  whom  all  her  paternal  acres  so  nearly  be- 
longed. And  then  —  she  admitted  the  fact 
grudgingly  as  Joyce  tossed  off  coat  and  hat 
and  took  up  the  oars  —  he  was  certainly  a  very 
highbred-looking  young  Irishman  with  an  un- 
questionably good  manner.  With  all  his  court- 
liness, he  was  just  aloof  enough  to  be  interesting. 

"  Faith,  and  Miss  Ladd  does  n't  know  a  fish- 
erman, the  way  a  whole  boatful  of  fish  would  not 
be  enough,"  he  exclaimed  as  the  lad  scrambled 
in.  "  It  is  of  that  we  've  been  telling  tales  in 
150 


NITKOGEN  NODULES 


the  car,  of  how  many  we  have  been  after  catch- 
ing and  how  many  we  are  wanting  to  catch." 

"  You  beat  us  all  holler,"  said  the  boy.  "I'd 
like  to  try  it  wunst  in  your  country.  Tell  some 
more." 

They  were  following  the  shore  under  the 
dipping  boughs  of  chestnuts  and  maples.  Down 
close  to  the  water  clustered  the  white  button- 
bushes  with  their  jasmine  scent.  Clouds  of  iri- 
descent blue  dragonflies  skimmed  the  shallows. 
A  fresh  little  air  touched  Olivia's  hot  cheeks. 
She  too  took  off  her  hat,  and  threw  it  with 
gloves  and  books  on  the  seat  beside  her.  Joyce 
looked  at  her  for  the  first  time  directly,  with  a 
quiet  smile. 

"  Not  now,  my  lad,"  he  was  answering.  "  Here 
it  is  sweet  in  its  own  way  and  'twould  be  spoiling 
it  to  talk  of  Glen  Inagh  and  Ballynahinch  and 
Derryclare.  And  it 's  a  little  cooler  ye  are,  Miss 
Ladd?" 

He  was  thinking  quickly  that  he  had  spoken 
the  truth  when  he  had  said  that  here  it  was 
sweet  in  its  own  way.  The  last  time  he  had 
been  in  a  boat  with  a  girl,  it  had  been  Aileen 
who  had  sat  in  the  bow  against  a  background 
of  sparkling  sea  and  deep  blue  sky,  and  in 
her  scarlet  cap,  the  young  gull's  wing  he  had 
151 


THE   INVADERS 


given  her.  Now  against  a  background  of  green 
branches  and  sunflecked  water  there  sat  oppo- 
site him  a  gray-eyed  young  woman  of  whom  at 
first  he  had  been  a  little  afraid.  But  facing  her 
half -wearied  quiet,  and  remembering  the  shadow 
picture  of  ten  days  before,  he  felt  much  more 
at  his  ease.  "And  the  little  breeze?  Y're  catch- 
ing it  ? "  he  said.  He  could  see  that  it  had 
caught  her,  for  it  was  blowing  the  soft  hair 
around  her  ears  and  lifting  the  ends  of  her  black 
four-in-hand  tie. 

"  Oh,  yes !  And  it  is  delicious !  It  is  much 
nicer  even  than  —  than  soy  beans ! " 

He  laughed  aloud,  heartily.  "And  yet  it  is 
what  I  have  been  thinking,  that  y're  in  love 
with  soy  beans  and  alfalfa,  y're  that  quiet  be- 
hind me." 

"  This  morning,  though,  I  almost  spoke  to 
you,"  she  said.  "  For  a  minute  you  were  in  — 
in  great  peril." 

"  In  great  peril,  was  I  ?  And  you  going  to 
save  me  ?  " 

"  It  was  averted,"  she  went  on,  with  a  little 
smile,  watching  him  critically.  At  any  rate,  his 
hands  were  pleasant  to  see,  brown  and  shapely 
and  muscular,  and  his  tan  was  the  real  burn  of 
the  sailor,  which  no  amount  of  inland  air  ever 
152 


NITROGEN  NODULES 


takes  off.  "  It  was  a  small  grasshopper,  and 
it  left  you  for  Miss  Knight  at  the  end  of  the 
row." 

At  this  the  little  lad  burst  into  a  peal  of 
round  laughter.  "  Gee !  But  I  bet  she  was 
scared,"  he  exclaimed.  "  Once  I  did  that  to  the 
teacher  —  I  put  a  grasshopper  in  the  drawer  of 
her  desk,  and  was  n't  she  in  a  fit ! "  And  again 
he  laughed  his  delight  in  reminiscence. 

"  You  did,  did  you  ?  "  Olivia  said,  with  an 
answering  laugh,  beginning  to  be  very  pleas- 
antly aware  of  the  little  lad.  "  And  where  do 
you  go  to  school?" 

"  Oh,  to  the  North  Fernfield  District  School. 
She  was  a  fearful  scary  one,  anyhow,  she  was. 
Even  fishworms  in  desks  made  her  squirm." 

Joyce  laughed,  and  looked  at  Olivia  with  a 
friendly  understanding  in  his  eyes.  Her  eyes 
were  friendly,  too,  and  more  merry  than  he  had 
ever  seen  them. 

"  Are  you  going  to  be  a  scary  one?  "  he  said. 
"  Shall  you  be  minding  fishworms  in  the  desks  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no !  I  shall  not  be  a  scary  one,"  she 
said  valiantly.  And  then  she  went  on  to  the 
little  lad  as  he  sat  perched  in  the  stern  with  his 
arms  around  his  yellow  khaki  knees,  "  And  do 
you  think  you  would  put  grasshoppers  in  my 
153 


THE   INVADERS 


desk  if  I  were  ever  to  be  teacher  in  your 
school?" 

He  surveyed  her  for  a  moment.  "You 
would  n't  screech  if  I  did.  That 's  the  fun,  when 
they  screech !  "  Then  his  face  broke  into  a 
broad  smile,  and  he  reddened.  "  Gee !  Are  you 
going  to  ?  "  he  said. 

Olivia  colored,  too.  It  was  something  of  a 
plunge  to  admit  it,  this  approaching  experiment 
of  hers,  and  with  Mr.  Joyce  looking  on  and  re- 
membering that  first  day ! 

"  Yes,  I  'm  going  to,"  she  answered.  "And  I  'm 
glad  to  know  you.  You  '11  help  me,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  I  can  chop  wood  and  —  and  run  the  stove," 
he  explained  proudly.  "  And  the  chestnuts  will 
soon  be  ripe.  And  it 's  nice,  recess  under  the 
trees.  You  '11  soon  get  used  to  things." 

"  It  is  what  you  will  be,  Miss  Ladd's  pro- 
tector," Joyce  said  as  they  rounded  a  point  close 
under  spreading  willow  and  wild  honeysuckle. 
A  bass  leaped  silver  and  then  down  again 
through  swift  widening  circles. 

The  boy  sprang  up.  "  Whew  !  D'  ye  see  that  ? 
Wish  I'd  been  trolling  !  That  was  a  three- 
pounder,  I'll  bet." 

"  He  was  very  glad  you  are  not  trolling,  the 
way  he  can  go  back  to  his  home  in  the  pickerel 
154 


NITROGEN  NODULES 


weed  and  the  lily-pads,"  Joyce  laughed.  "  And 
some  other  time  you  and  I  can  come  out  here 
and  catch  him." 

"  All  right !  When  ?  I  '11  get  the  worms." 

"  Oh,  some  fine  day  when  you  are  after  hav- 
ing excellent  lessons,  and  after  putting  a  nose- 
gay in  Miss  Ladd's  desk." 

Miss  Ladd  and  her  pupil  laughed,  too. 

"  And  what  is  your  name  ? "  she  asked. 
"  And  do  you  live  in  North  Fernfield?" 

He  reddened  again.  "Dad  says  it's  a  fancy 
name.  Mother  named  me.  Dad's  name  is  Pratt 
Smith.  Mother  named  me  Byron,  but  people 
always  say  'By.'  That  ain't  so  bad,  is  it?" 

"There,  By!  Faith,  it's  a  lily  there  at  the 
side  of  y',  and  it 's  what  Miss  Ladd  is  wanting, 
is  it  not,  Miss  Ladd  ?  " 

By  leaned  over  and  dipped  down  deep  into 
the  clear,  shadowed  water. 

"  Next  to  fishin',  gimme  this !  "  he  said  ec- 
statically, drawing  out  the  dazzling,  tremulous 
flower  and  passing  it  on  to  Joyce.  "In  our 
pond  there 's  just  about  a  million.  You  got 
'em  in  your  country  ?  " 

Joyce  handed  the  lily  to  Olivia. 

"  Oh,  thank  you !  "  she  said.  "  It  is  just  what 
I  was  wanting." 

155 


THE   INVADERS 


And  she  looked  at  him  now  quite  as  cloud- 
lessly as  if  he  had  been  any  other  man  than  the 
man  he  was ;  and  quite  irrelevantly  there  popped 
into  his  head  the  little  apple-blossom  song  that 
she  had  broken  into  so  ruthlessly  on  that  first 
morning.  And,  indeed,  it  was  very  much  pleas- 
anter  not  to  be  bitter  against  this  young  lady 
who  could  smile  so  winningly  into  the  eyes  of 
a  boy  and  look  so  happy  over  the  gift  of  a 
flower.  Probably  to  some  other  man  she  showed 
as  radiant  and  lovely  as  Aileen  showed  to  him. 

"  Why,  if  you  are  Pratt  Smith's  son,"  she 
was  going  on  to  By  over  Joyce's  shoulder, 
"  you  must  live  in  that  fine  old  place  with  the 
big  pond,  up  Exeter  way.  Of  course  I  remember 
it.  And  you  come  all  that  way  to  the  North 
Fernfield  school?" 

By  dropped  his  eyes  and  frowned  down  at 
the  fish  feebly  splashing  in  the  bottom  of  the 
boat. 

"That's  our  place,  but" — he  hesitated — 
"  but  we  don't  live  there.  Mr.  Stopolski  lives  in  it 
and  he  lets  me  fish.  That 's  where  I  got  these 
fish.  And  you  see  at  our  pond  you  can  fish 
right  off  the  bank  and  that 's  safer  —  that  is, 
for  mother." 

"  Some  day,  when  you  are  a  man,  you  must 
156 


NITROGEN  NODULES 


buy  back  the  place,"  Olivia  said  with  a  little 
deepening  of  color.  "  It 's  a  very  beautiful  old 
place." 

"  Not  much  !  "  By  exclaimed.  And  then  to 
Joyce,  "  Would  you  ?  " 

Joyce's  right  oar  circled  the  boat  slowly  round 
towards  the  trolley  track.  He  gave  Olivia  a 
quick  little  glance  that  was  half  an  appeal. 

"  Faith,  and  it  is  what  I  never  would  do,  to 
take  the  old  places  away  from  those  who  love 
them,"  he  said,  watching  the  swirl  of  the  water. 
"  I  would  let  the  other  man  do  that  and  I  would 
buy  only  of  those  who  have  no  love  in  their 
hearts  for  the  old  places." 

"  I  'd  rather  go  to  your  country,"  By  went 
on,  quite  seriously.  "  Dad  says  that  here  all  the 
places  are  fished  out.  And  was  it  true  —  honest 
true  —  what  you  told  about  the  trout  —  about 
the  white  trout  that  was  enchanted  ?  Tim  Leary, 
that  conductor,  he  said  he  'd  heard  about  it,  too." 

"  It  was  fairy  true,  my  lad,"  Joyce  answered, 
ready  for  Olivia  when  she  would  turn  and  smile 
with  him.  "  Y'  see,  there  are  two  kinds  of  true, 
and  both  are  true.  There  's  honest  true  and 
fairy  true.  And  the  white  trout  is  fairy  true, 
and  the  trout  in  Glen  Inagh  almost  jumping 
into  your  hand,  that  is  honest  true." 
157 


THE  INVADERS 


The  clanging  of  the  trolley  bell  made  him 
straighten  up  and  quicken  his  strokes.  Olivia 
took  up  her  hat. 

"  Of  course  they  '11  wait  for  us,  won't  they?" 
she  exclaimed.  It  suddenly  seemed  to  her  that 
it  would  be  annoying  to  have  a  boat-ride  with 
Mr.  Patrick  Joyce  the  cause  of  her  missing  a 
trolley.  The  clanging  of  the  bell  had  reasserted 
the  conventions  with  their  usual  strength.  And 
what  would  Prunella  say  should  she  hear  of  the 
adventure ! 

"  Oh,  yes !  They  will  wait  for  us.  It  is  what 
we  agreed,  that  they  would  give  us  time  to  get 
back."  He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  sending  the 
boat  swiftly  through  the  water  in  long,  quiet 
strokes.  Olivia  was  pinning  her  hat  on  and 
smoothing  back  the  blown  hair  under  its 
brim. 

"  Afterwards  —  to  be  thinking  that  you  came 
—  it  will  be  more  like  fairy  true  than  honest 
true,"  he  said  presently. 

Olivia  swept  him  with  a  glance.  It  was  stupid 
to  have  to  acknowledge  that  his  eyes  and  voice 
were  nice. 

"  Oh,  thank  you  !  "  she  said.  "  It  has  teen 
great  fun.  And  then  to  meet  By.  That  was 
providential." 

158 


NITEOGEN  NODULES 


By  was  holding  his  perch  and  pumpkinseed 
over  the  stern  for  a  cooling  dip. 

"Roman  and  Leo  Krakoski,  they  fill  the 
water-cooler," he  said  genially ;  "and  Apollonia 
and  Stefanya,  they  '11  help  you  lots." 

"  And  with  you  to  show  me,  too,"  Olivia 
answered  as  genially.  "  Oh,  I  shall  not  be  so 
afraid." 

But  she  was  thinking,  all  the  time,  of  the  rest 
of  the  trolley  ride,  and  wondering  whether  Mr. 
Joyce  would  take  the  seat  beside  her,  and  what 
there  would  be  to  talk  about,  and  how  it  was 
that  he  seemed  so  much  more  endurable  than 
he  had  seemed  that  day  in  the  town  hall.  But 
she  soon  found  that  all  her  anxious  speculation 
was  quite  unnecessary.  After  helping  her  back 
to  her  former  seat  and  receiving  her  thanks 
with  the  wholly  impersonal  assertion  with  which 
he  had  justified  the  invitation,  that  the  boat  ride 
was  better  than  sitting  there  in  the  heat,  Mr. 
Joyce  lifted  his  hat  and  resumed  his  place  on 
the  front  platform,  in  the  good  company  of  By 
and  the  motorman. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THAT    PEDDLER 

Six  dozen  kisses,  Robbie.  It 's  been  a  day's 
work  to  make  them.  And  you  will  be  careful 
and  pull  the  wagon  gently.  Kisses  are  so  per- 
ishable. And  tell  Mr.  Sibley  to  be  careful  in 
putting  them  on  the  train.  And  then,  of  course, 
the  Grange  ladies  will  be  on  hand  to  take  them 
off  in  Flagfield.  They  know  all  about  kisses. 
Now  I  can  trust  you,  Robbie."  And  Miss  Hol- 
lins  gave  a  final  tug  to  the  cord  that  held  the 
pile  of  cake-boxes  on  Robbie's  little  red  express 
wagon. 

It  had  been  a  busy  time  since  three  o'clock 
that  morning,  when  the  day  had  begun  for  her. 
In  the  season,  when  the  countryside  was  full  of 
summer  visitors,  and  church  suppers  and  Grange 
meetings  were  numerous ,  she  always  began  the 
day  when  the  sun  began  it,  and  left  Prunella 
sound  asleep  in  the  big  fourposter.  And  it  was 
really  the  sweetest  time  of  the  day  there  in 
the  cool  kitchen,  with  the  roses  fresh  under 
the  south  window,  and  the  east  like  a  rose,  and 
160 


THAT   PEDDLER 


all  the  back  yards  on  each  side  of  her  own  dewy 
and  quiet.  It  was  a  good  way  to  begin  work,  in 
all  that  still  loveliness,  after  a  cup  of  coffee 
and  a  chapter  in  Psalms. 

Robbie's  wagon  successfully  arrived  at  the 
corner  of  the  street  and  passed  out  of  Miss 
Hollins's  sight  as  she  leaned  over  the  gate. 
Eleven  o'clock  was  just  striking.  Prunella  was 
gone  to  start  the  outgoing  mail.  The  boarders 
had  all  gone  on  a  picnic  except  Miss  Kirk.  She 
was  knitting  on  the  side  porch  in  the  shade  of 
the  clematis.  Miss  Hollins  stooped  to  pull  some 
straggling  dandelions  out  of  Prunella's  neat 
grassplot.  The  roots  were  firm,  and  it  took 
some  tugging  to  get  them  up. 

It  was  while  she  was  tugging  and  pulling, 
with  her  back  to  the  gate,  that  an  automobile, 
as  shining  and  big  and  noiseless  as  the  chariot 
of  Phoebus  himself,  rolled  up  to  her  curbing 
and  stopped.  However,  it  was  no  Pho3bus  that 
drove  it,  and  no  immortal  that  sat  upon  the 
back  seat  among  the  baskets  of  beans  and 
tomatoes  and  carrots  and  beets.  It  was  Mr. 
Patrick  Joyce,  unhelmeted  and  in  the  array  of 
an  ordinary  young  man,  who  acted  as  chariot- 
eer, and  who,  when  he  had  brought  the  chariot 
to  a  soft  stop,  and  had  a  moment's  parley  with 
161 


the  more  elderly  mortal  in  the  rear,  promptly 
opened  the  pages  of  the  "  New  York  Herald  " 
and  buried  himself  in  the  polo  and  cricket  and 
golf  news.  Meanwhile,  the  more  elderly  mortal, 
who,  after  all,  was  not  so  very  elderly,  and  had 
a  most  youthful  twinkle  in  his  blue  eyes,  alighted 
with  some  dignity  and  much  caution,  lest  he  be 
followed  by  a  cascade  of  vegetables.  Once  free 
of  his  vegetarian  surroundings  and  with  his 
hand  on  the  latch  of  Miss  Hollins's  small  green 
gate,  he  looked  something  between  a  Member 
of  Parliament  and  a  skipper,  with  his  fine 
crop  of  white  hair  and  his  ruddy  skin  and  the 
white  vest  he  wore  with  his  dark  blue  flan- 
nels. 

Miss  Hollins  heard  the  gate  click.  She  would 
be  ready  for  that  peddler  who  always  got  in  be- 
fore you  knew  it,  she  said  to  herself,  giving  a 
final  tug. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  intruder 
suavely.  "  I  want  just  a  —  " 

"  It 's  a  waste  of  time,"  she  began  sharply 
—  then  sprang  up  and  reddened  as  rosily  as 
Prunella  did  under  fire.  "  Oh,  excuse  me !  I 
did  not  realize,"  she  added,  ice  forming  as  she 
went  on.  What  did  Michael  Joyce  want  there, 
anyhow,  surprising  her.  And  at  such  an  hour, 
162 


THAT  PEDDLER 


before  she  had  changed  into  a  fresh  percale,  and 
with  such  hands ! 

"  Good-morning,  Miss  Hollins,"  he  said,  as 
gravely  as  if  she  were  receiving  him  in  highest 
state.  "  May  I  speak  with  y'  just  a  minute  ? 
It 's  a  great  favor  y'll  be  doing  me." 

As  he  spoke  there  came  a  plaintive  voice 
from  behind  the  hedge  on  the  other  side  of  the 
street,  calling  "  Sollie  !  Sollie!  Come,  Sollie  !  " 
Solomon,  Mrs.  Clabby's  maltese,  was  always 
missing  when  anything  of  interest  was  occur- 
ring at  a  neighbor's. 

"  Of  course  you  may,"  Miss  Hollins  said,  not 
suavely,  holding  her  dandelions.  "  Come  up  on 
the  porch  where  it 's  shady."  She  could  n't 
hide  his  automobile  from  Jane  Clabby,  but  she 
could  keep  her  from  watching  the  interview. 
"  Take  a  chair  while  I  wash  my  hands.  Dande- 
lion roots  take  a  lot  of  pulling."  And  she  went 
in  and  let  the  screen  door  slam  and  washed  her 
hands  at  the  sink.  What  could  have  brought 
him  ?  He  had  n't  been  near  enough  to  speak  to 
since  that  day  ten  years  ago  when  the  deeds 
were  signed.  And  the  grassplot  would  n't  come 
out  of  her  fingernails.  And  her  face  was  red  as 
a  beet.  The  little  glass  in  the  kitchen  told  her 
so.  If  Prunella  were  only  there  ! 
163 


THE   INVADERS 


On  the  porch  she  found  him  seemingly  quite 
cool  and  unperturbed.  He  had  not  obeyed  her 
and  sat  down,  but  stood  by  the  little  sewing- 
table  where  she  and  Prunella  kept  their  work, 
holding  his  fine  white  Panama  hat. 

"I'll  not  be  keeping  y'  a  moment,"  he  said 
promptly  and  smilingly.  "  It  is  what  I  have 
come  about,  a  little  table  that  I  found  in  the 
Welling  house  that's  likely  belonging  to  y'." 

"  A  little  table  ! "  she  exclaimed,  amazed  and 
melting.  "  There  was  a  little  table.  Won't  you 
sit  down  ?  " 

When  she  had  taken  the  Windsor  rocker,  he 
seated  himself  formally  on  the  edge  of  the  long 
bench.  Evidently  he  purposed  the  briefest  of 
calls. 

"It  is  a  little  table  with  drawers  all  inlaid  and 
with  foine  glass  knobs,  and  it 's  not  in  the  list 
Mrs.  Chappell  has  been  so  kind  as  to  send  me," 
he  went  on  in  a  most  businesslike  fashion.  "  Y' 
see,  the  young  gentleman  went  so  soon  and  left 
everything ;  the  way  I  've  been  that  puzzled  to 
know  about  the  things." 

"  It  was  disgraceful  the  way  Dacre  went  off. 
I  don't  wonder  you  've   been  puzzled,"  Miss 
Hollins  said  emphatically.  "  But  that 's  always 
been  his  way.  He  's  a  spoiled  boy." 
164 


THAT  PEDDLEE 


"  Poor  lad !  It  will  go  hard  with  him,  the 
wurrld.  But  it  was  Bride,  my  niece,  who  was 
after  finding  out  the  table  belonged  to  y*.  There 
was  a  bit  of  paper  pasted  in  the  bottom  of  one 
of  the  drawers,  and  it  saying  the  table  was  the 
gift  of  Mrs.  Hollins  to  Mrs.  Welling.  Faith,  it's 
Bride  has  eyes  for  finding  things  and  seeing 
into  things." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  thank  you  !  "  Miss  Hollins 
cried  softly.  "  That 's  the  very  table.  I  've  been 
longing  to  get  it.  I  told  Prunella  so.  It  was 
my  mother's  wedding  gift  to  Dacre  Welling's 
grandmother.  Oh,  I  am  very  glad." 

"  And  it  is  what  I  am,  too,  very  glad. 
There 's  a  heart  in  the  old  things,  sure ! "  he 
exclaimed,  a  little  ruddier  than  before.  "I'll 
send  it  down  to  y'  right  away.  And  Bride  will 
be  glad.  It  is  like  an  inchantment  that  is  on 
her,  she  to  be  always  seeing  into  things  and 
into  the  right  of  them." 

"  I  know  she  does,"  Miss  Hollins  found  her- 
self saying  almost  warmly,  leaning  forward  in 
the  Windsor  rocker.  "  Every  one  says  beauti- 
ful things  about  her.  And  she  seems  so  cheer- 
ful. She  must  make  you  very  happy." 

He  was  carefully  creasing  the  crown  of  his 
hat  as  an  embarrassed  boy  would  have  done. 
165 


THE  INVADEKS 


"  She  does,  she  does  !  "  he  said.  "  Poor  lass ! 
But  it 's  a  heavy  heart  she  has  in  her,  and  she 
so  gay." 

"  A  heavy  heart ! "  Miss  Hollins  exclaimed. 
"  Why,  she  seems  a  perfect  ray  of  sunshine." 
Not  of  rays  was  she  thinking,  but  of  what  a 
remarkably  clean-looking  man  he  was.  It  had 
not  seemed  possible  a  man  could  look  so  clean. 
And  how  nice  he  was  about  the  table.  If  he 
had  come  fifteen  minutes  later,  he  would  n't 
have  caught  her  in  that  soiled  — 

"  Y'  see,  she  's  homesick,  Bride  is,"  he  was 
going  on.  "  She  and  Pat  were  left  motherless 
bairns,  and  then  three  year  ago  my  brother, 
their  father,  went  down  in  a  winter  gale  off 
Killery.  But  at  home  in  the  ould  country  the 
nuns  were  always  mothering  her,  and  she  had 
her  poor.  But  here,  y'  see,  there 's  no  woman 
to  mother  her  and  she  's  that  slow  in  making 
friends  with  the  gur-rls.  We  do  our  best,  Pat 
and  I,  the  way  she  won't  be  always  wishing 
herself  in  the  ould  country.  But  it 's  a  heavy 
heart  she  has  in  her,  poor  colleen." 

"Why  —  why,    send   her   to  see   me,  poor 
child ! "   Miss  Hollins  heard  herself  saying.  "  Of 
course   she 's   homesick.    Who    would  n't   be ! 
Prunella  would  —  be  delighted." 
166 


THAT  PEDDLER 


He  looked  up  quickly  with  eyes  suddenly 
grown  soft.  "  What  use  will  it  be,  I  to  try  to 
thank  y' ! "  he  said.  "  'T  was  I  that  brought  her 
to  this  country,  and  to  know  she's  grieving 
under  her  blitheness !  And  it  is  indeed  quite 
different  for  a  young  lass,  this  great  country 
after  little  ould  Ireland,  God  bless  it !  "  He  got 
up  and  stood  a  moment,  still  fumbling  his  hat. 

"  To  be  quite  honest  with  yj,"  he  hesitated, 
"  I  had  another  reason  for  coming  and  taking  y'r 
time.  But  I  should  not  be  daring  to  come  with- 
out my  knowing  y're  a  great  business  woman 
—  that  facts  are  facts  to  y',  just  as  they  are  to 
a  man,  and  that  y'  don't  let  sintimint  get  away 
with  good  sinse." 

Miss  Hollins  again  grew  rosy.  "  I  try  to  be. 
I  've  had  to  be,"  she  said. 

"Now  it  was  this  way.  I  know  that  y're 
thrifty  and  y'  would  n't  want  to  see  potatoes 
and  beans  and  beets  and  cabbages  and  all  the 
rest  of  the  garden  lying  there  in  the  sun,  the 
way  they're  rotting  and  no  one  to  be  ating 
them.  And  so  —  so — "  he  paused  and  settled 
the  gold-rimmed  eyeglasses  on  the  black  ribbon. 
"  Ye've  the  head  of  a  man  even  if  y've  the 
heart  of  a  woman,  and  so  you  '11  let  one  of  the 
lads  bring  ye  down  fresh  vegetables  every  morn- 
167 


THE  INVADERS 


ing.  Faith,  they  're  lazy  lubbers,  are  the  lads, 
and  the  stuff  that 's  peddled  y'  is  n't  worth  a 
baubee,  and  the  waste  in  the  fields  is  a  sin. 
Sure,  I  brought  down  some  garden  stuff  this 
morning,  seeing  I  was  coming.  Y'  won't 
mind?" 

Miss  Ilollms  had  grown  as  pale  as  he  had 
grown  ruddy  while  he  stammered  on.  They 
would  choke  her,  the  vegetables  from  those 
fields.  And  yet  how  could  she  hurt  him  !  Forty 
dollars  last  month  for  green  groceries.  Tired 
Prunella  out  in  the  hot  sun  hoeing  the  little  gar- 
den. The  goodness  of  God !  Had  n't  her  Psalm 
said  so  that  very  morning !  "  In  the  shadow  of 
His  wing !  "  And  the  kindness  of  the  man  ! 

"  Why,  yes,  I  will,  gladly,"  she  said  bluntly, 
holding  out  her  hand.  "  It 's  a  big  item,  fresh 
vegetables.  And  when  you  've  always  been  used 
to  your  own  gardens.  You  're  very,  very  kind. 
I  did  n't  think  at  first  I  could  let  you  do  such 
a  thing,  but  I  —  I  can."  The  mist  had  come 
on  her  spectacles,  and  he  was  shaking  her  hand 
warmly. 

Then  he  whistled  softly.  "  Pat,"   he  cried. 
"  Suppose  y'  be  laving  Miss  Hollins  the  vege- 
tables I  was  bringing  down  to  kape  the  bur-rds 
from  gorging  themselves  into  early  graves." 
168 


THAT  PEDDLER 


And  with  smiling  alacrity  Mr.  Patrick  Joyce 
presently  had  the  little  porch  gay  with  the 
baskets,  and  fragrant  from  a  great  bunch  of 
flowers  that  lay  atop  of  the  lettuce. 

"  They  're  Bride's  cutting,  the  posies,"  Mr. 
Joyce  was  saying,  as  he  and  Patrick  bowed 
themselves  down  the  steps.  "  And  the  table 
I  '11  send  y'  by  the  very  first  lad  that 's  handy." 

"And  Bride  must  come  down  very  soon," 
Miss  Hollins  called  after  them.  "Prunella  will 
be  delighted." 

As  the  big  car  rolled  away  with  a  great  lift- 
ing of  hats,  faintly  from  across  the  street  came 
the  call,  "  Sollie  !  Sollie !  Come,  Sollie  ! " 

Miss  Hollins  collapsed  into  the  Windsor 
rocker.  What  would  Prunella  say?  What  would 
she  say !  But  what  else  could  a  Christian  do ! 
And  they  were  beautiful  vegetables.  Such 
tomatoes  !  And  the  man  was  kind  and  clean  and 
decent  and — and  vegetables  were  high  in  the 
dry  weather.  "And  if  thou  bring  thy  gift  to 
the  altar  and  there  rememberest  aught  that 
thou  hast  against  thy  brother,  go  first  and  be 
reconciled  with  thy  brother."  And  "Blessed 
are  the  peacemakers."  That  was  plain  Bible 
teaching.  Prunella  could  have  nothing  to  say 
against  that  anyhow.  And  Bride !  Any  woman 
169 


THE  INVADERS 


would  do  as  much  for  a  lonely  girl.  Suppose  it 
were  Prunella !  But  what  would  Prunella  say ! 

When  Prunella  came  home  at  one  o'clock, 
hot  and  tired  after  the  opening  of  the  noon 
mail,  she  dropped  wearily  into  her  place  at  the 
table  without  going  out  on  the  hack  porch, 
whither  Miss  Hollins  and  Robbie  had  trans- 
ported the  vegetables.  The  flowers  had  been 
gayly  and  fragrantly  disposed  in  various  parts 
of  the  house,  the  sweet-peas  on  the  dining-room 
table.  But  Prunella  was  too  weary  to  be  observ- 
ant. 

Miss  Hollins  sipped  her  last  cup  of  tea 
thoughtfully. 

"  And  what  do  you  think,  Aunt  Lou  !  It 's 
just  what  you'd  expect,  of  course.  There's 
going  to  be  a  concert  next  week  —  yes,  a  con- 
cert—  in  the  town  hall,  for  the  benefit  of  the 
library,  and  who  —  who"  —  the  piece  of  cold 
lamb  Prunella  was  impaling  refused  to  stay  on 
her  fork  —  "  and  who  do  you  suppose  is  going 
to  play?" 

"Why,  your  Polander,  of  course.  Why 
should  n't  he  play  ?  He 's  a  genius  if  there  was 
ever  one.  And  prejudice,  Prunella  — " 

"  My  Polander  !  Aunt  Lou !  How  perfectly 
absurd !  And  Dr.  Britton  says  he  plays  every 
170 


THAT  PEDDLER 


day  with  that  Polish  priest.  Dr.  Britton  can 
hear  quite  plainly  in  his  study.  I  had  to  buy 
two  tickets.  You  and  Miss  Kirk  might  go,  Aunt 
Lou.  I  loathe  music.  You  know  I  do."  And 
she  put  another  spoonful  of  mayonnaise  on  the 
plump  Joyce  tomato. 

Miss  Hollins  set  down  her  cup  with  a  little 
rattle  and  folded  her  napkin. 

"  Prunella,"  she  said  sharply,  "  I  may  as  well 
tell  you.  You  '11  see  for  yourself  in  a  minute. 
And  you  need  n't  make  a  bit  of  fuss.  I  know 
my  duty  and  I  'm  going  to  do  it.  And  there  's 
no  use  in  the  world  in  keeping  up  all  this  pre- 
judice against  foreigners.  They've  come  and 
they  're  going  to  stay.  That 's  the  very  thing 
Dr.  Britton  said  so  splendidly  in  his  sermon, 
and  that,  after  all,  we  are  n't  any  better  than 
they.  Goodness  knows,  we  old  families  need 
something  to  start  us  on  again." 

Prunella  had  finished  the  tomato,  but  she 
held  a  saltine  poised,  too  amazed  to  bite. 
"  Why,  Aunt  Lou !  What  is  the  matter  ?  I  '11  go 
to  the  old  concert  and  send  your  Stefan  a  — 

"  It 's  not   that,  Prunella.  It 's   the  Joyces. 

Mr.  Michael  Joyce  called  here  this  morning. 

Yes,  here,  Prunella,  and  I  was  a  sight  for  the 

gods  in  my  soiled  dress,  with  such  hands !  I 

171 


THE   INVADERS 


was  on  my  knees  pulling  dandelions,  and  I 
thought  he  was  that  impudent  tin  peddler  that 
sneaks  in  before  you  know  it.  I  did  n't  hear  the 
automobile  at  all.  And  he  's  found  my  little 
inlaid  table  up  at  the  old  Welling  place  and  — 
and  —  and  after  this,  he's  —  he's  going  to 
supply  us  with  vegetables,  Prunella."  Miss 
Hollins  was  taking  her  napkin  out  of  the  ring 
and  carefully  refolding  it  and  putting  it  back 
again. 

"  Will  it  be  —  be  —  much  cheaper,  Aunt 
Lou?" 

"  Cheaper,  Prunella !  Why,  don't  you  under- 
stand ?  It  is  going  to  cost  us  nothing  —  to  be 
a  —  a  kind  of  convenience  to  —  to  Mr.  Joyce. 
I  know  how  it  used  to  be  in  Father's  time.  We 
just  had  to  throw  away  the  vegetables." 

"  Aunt  Lou !  Of  all  the  terrible  come-downs  ! 
Why,  they  would  choke  me  —  under  those  con- 
ditions." 

"  That  tomato  did  n't  choke  you,  child.  And 
you  Ve  not  been  suffocated  by  the  sweet-peas. 
That's  sense  —  and  —  and  Christianity,  Pru- 
nella." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THEN    STEFAN    PLAYED 

YOU'RE  growing  thinner,  Olivia.  Last  time  I 
could  hardly  get  the  hooks  together.  And 
now !  There  you  are  ! "  And  Mrs.  Ladd  gave  a 
final  pat  to  the  butterfly  bow  that  finished  the 
high  waist-line  of  the  blue  crepe  gown.  Then 
she  stood  a  moment  looking  at  Olivia  in  the 
glass,  watching  her  fasten  the  old  seed-pearl 
brooch  in  the  soft  folds.  "  I  used  to  look  like 
you,  dear,"  she  said  presently,  with  a  little  sigh. 
The  pin  was  fastened.  "  Only  a  million  times 
better  than  I  can  ever  look,  Mamma,"  Olivia 
protested.  She  was  brushing  back  her  hair  into 
a  more  severe  line.  That  was  what  Dacre  always 
had  said,  that  the  lines  around  her  cheek  and 
ear  were  her  best  lines.  Under  her  filmy  surplice 
was  hidden  his  most  recent  letter.  "  I  can  never 
approach  your  ivory  miniature,  Mamma.  That 
has  forever  discouraged  me."  She  laughed  and 
then  rummaged  for  her  white  gloves.  She  had 
to  look  away.  It  hurt  too  much,  seeing  her 
mother's  face  there  so  close  to  her  own  in  the 
173 


THE   INVADERS 


lamplight,  against  the  dim  background  of  the 
high-ceiled  old  room.  So  like  her  own,  and  yet 
every  line  in  high  relief  —  wrinkle,  hollow, 
crowsfoot,  tired  eyes,  faded  hair,  against  her 
own  curve  and  glow  and  shine!  "Besides, 
Mamma,  youth  is  terribly  crude  and  unripe  and 
glaring." 

"Youth  is  entirely  —  entirely  divine,  dear," 
Mrs.  Ladd  corrected  her,  turning  away.  "  Wait 
till  you  have  a  daughter.  Then  you  '11  know  the 
feeling  —  like  —  like  holding  the  door  of  a 
shrine." 

"  Why,  Mamma  !  That 's  beautiful  —  what 
you  said.  But  you  don't  feel  that  with  me,  do 
you?  Why  should  you?  So  practical  and  well- 
poised  a  person  as  I."  She  was  taking  the  lamp 
from  the  high  chest  of  drawers,  throwing  into 
light,  then  into  shadow,  the  big  f ourposter,  the 
blowing  blue  and  white  chintz  curtains,  the 
narrow,  high  mantel-shelf  with  its  string  of 
capped  and  gowned  photographs. 

Mrs.  Ladd  followed  with  little  blue  fan  and 
white  Liberty  cape. 

"  Yes,  with  you,  of  all  people,"  she  said  as 
they  went  down  the  stairs.  "  I  almost  hold  my 
breath  to  listen  for  the  footsteps  of  —  of  invad- 
ers into  your  shrine,  Olivia." 
174 


- 


THEN   STEFAN  PLAYED 


"  But  why,  Mamma  ?  "  she  persisted,  putting 
the  lamp  in  the  parlor  and  coming  back  into 
the  soft  light  of  the  hall.  "  It  is  n't  reasonable 
to  feel  so  —  witU  me.  I  seem  to  myself  so  —  so 
over  with  youth,  so  dependable.  Why  should 
you,  Mamma?" 

Mrs.  Ladd  handed  her  cape  and  fan  and  drew 
her  under  the  Chinese  lamp,  holding  her  gently 
by  her  shoulders. 

"Because,  my  dearest,"  she  answered,  so 
quietly  that  Olivia  felt  that  it  was  very  passion- 
ately, "  because  I  can  see  so  far  back  and  — 
and  you  are  the  only  perfectly  lovely  thing  in 
my  life.  Now  fly  along.  You  '11  be  late  for  the 
concert."  And  she  kissed  her  cheek  lightly  and 
turned  her  half  playfully  towards  the  door. 

"  I  'd  much  rather  stay,  Mamma.  You  '11  be 
lonely.  And  it 's  a  lot  of  trouble  just  to  hear 
that  Stefan  Posadowski  play.  It  will  probably 
be  something  fearful  to  listen  to." 

"  No,  no  !  You  go  on,  dear !  You  '11  see  a 
lot  of  people,  and  let  them  see  you.  That 's 
your  duty  here  in  the  village.  Good-bye  !  I  'm 
going  to  read  '  Phineas  Finn.' ' 

So  Olivia  went,  down  the  dark  street  fra- 
grant from  the  dewy  gardens  behind  fence  and 
hedge.  There  were  stars  in  the  elm-tops,  fireflies 
175 


THE   INVADERS 


twinkling  over  the  grass,  and  two  blocks  ahead, 
the  windows  of  the  town  hall  bravely  aglitter. 
Olivia  walked  very  slowly.  With  her  mother's 
words  so  hot  in  her  memory  and  Dacre's  letter  in 
her  bosom,  it  did  not  seem  possible  that  she  could 
go  on  into  the  crowd  and  the  music.  At  the 
open  field  between  Mrs.  Egerton's  and  Sarah 
Tibbetts's,  she  stopped  quite  still.  Who  would 
know  if  she  ran  off  into  the  darkness  and  quiet 
and  got  herself  together?  She  would  like  to  lie  in 
the  cool  grass  and  look  up  into  stars  upon  stars 
upon  stars.  "  The  only  perfectly  lovely  thing  in 
my  life."  To  be  to  her  mother,  that,  and  to  be 
Dacre's  "  precious  old  Sweetheart,"  to  have  him 
"  long  to  kiss  and  kiss  "  her  "  dear  mouth,"  to  be 
pictured  sewing  by  his  studio  window  among  the 
three  geraniums  and  the  two  snapdragons  and 
the  mignonette  and  the  fauvette's  cage !  She 
could  not  think  of  all  that  and  listen  to  gay  music, 
and  talk  and  laugh  like  other  people.  Out  there 
in  the  meadow  among  the  fireflies,  it  would  be 
very  still,  and  she  could  turn  up  her  skirt  and 
keep  it  from  the  dew,  and —  But  then  Dacre 
had  said  something  else.  What  was  it  he  had 
said  about  the  little  Sicilian  with  the  blue-black 
hair  and  the  red,  red  lips,  and  how  he  was  paint- 
ing her  eating  cherries  ?  And  what  was  it  he 
176 


THEN   STEFAN   PLAYED 


had  said  about  the  omelets  she  could  make,  the 
little  cherry-lipped  Sicilienne?  Aux  cerises,  aux 
framboises,  aux  confitures !  Such  omelets,  in 
a  small  pan  over  the  charcoal  in  the  studio ! 
Olivia  must  learn  to  do  omelets  a  la  Sici- 
lienne I 

She  turned  back  into  the  path  and  went  on 
quickly  past  Mrs.  Egerton's  arbor  vitae  hedge, 
past  Mrs.  Archibald's  lilac  bushes,  past  the  tall 
white  meeting-house.  Out  through  the  wide- 
open  doors  of  the  town  hall  long  beams  of  light 
fell  into  the  grassy  street.  The  air  was  softly 
brightened  with  calls  and  laughter,  and  people 
in  couples  and  groups  came  out  of  the  shadow 
and  walked  up  the  beams  of  light  to  the  high 
Doric-columned  porch.  A  little  to  one  side  of  the 
entrance  the  Joyces'  big  touring-car  chugged 
and  throbbed.  That  was  Patrick  Joyce  crossing 
the  headlights.  The  chugging  stopped.  Joyce 
tossed  a  cigar  into  the  grass  and  went  up  the 
steps.  He  was  in  his  Tuxedo,  without  a  hat. 
He  stopped  a  moment  and  looked  her  way,  down 
the  street.  Then  he  went  into  the  hall.  After 
him,  Mrs.  Krakoski,  with  Apollonia  and  Stefanya 
in  very  much-starched  white  dresses  and  large 
hair-bows,  came,  hurrying  up  abeam. 

"  Quick !  Quick !  It  begins !  We  get  no  sits. 
177 


THE   INVADERS 


Quick ! "  panted  Mrs.  Krakoski,  stepping  on 
her  red  satin  skirt,  but  stumbling  on. 

Olivia  had  got  to  the  foot  of  the  steps.  It 
would  be  pleasanter  to  go  in  with  somebody, 
and  that  sounded  like  Prunella's  voice  across 
the  street.  And  it  was  Prunella,  in  the  buff 
organdie,  leading  Miss  Kirk,  the  blind  boarder. 
Miss  Kirk  had  a  red  geranium  pinned  in  the 
white  lace  jabot  that  showed  between  the  folds 
of  her  white  Shetland  shawl. 

"Oh,  is  that  you,  Prunella?  Good-evening, 
Miss  Kirk  !  "  Olivia  said,  joining  them  on  the 
beam.  "  May  I  go  with  you  ?  Mamma  did  n't 
feel  equal  to  coming." 

Miss  Kirk  held  her  hand  lingeringly. 

"  Of  course.  Do  !  And  we  '11  keep  a  seat  for 
Aunt  Lou,"  Prunella  answered  heartily,  giving 
Olivia  one  of  her  quick,  admiring  glances.  "My, 
but  that 's  a  lovely  dress,  Olivia !  And  it 's 
stunning  on  you." 

"  I  knew  it  was  a  lovely  gown,"  Miss  Kirk 
said  in  her  tremulous  blind  voice.  "  It  is  blue, 
I  think." 

"  Yes,  it 's  blue,  Miss  Kirk  —  my  Rose  Day 
gown." 

"  And  she 's  lovely  in  it,  Miss  Kirk,"  Prunella 
added. 

178 


THEN   STEFAN  PLAYED 


"  I  can  feel  that  she  is,"  Miss  Kirk  said  softly. 
"  And  so  are  you  in  yours,  Prunella.  It  will  be 
pleasant  to  sit  between  you  girls  to  hear  the 
music.  Perhaps  I  can  hear  the  color.  Sometimes 
I  do." 

They  were  going  carefully  up  the  steps  into  the 
portico,  then  on  into  the  bright,  high  hall,  with 
the  white  walls  and  the  rows  of  green  benches. 
They  were  well  filled,  the  old  green  benches 
upon  which  the  grandfathers  and  great-grand- 
fathers of  perhaps  one  third  of  the  then  present 
audience  had  sat.  The  grandfathers  and  great- 
grandfathers of  the  other  two  thirds  had  known 
far  different  scenes  for  their  gatherings. 

"  There  's  Mrs.  Wieniaski  with  her  husband," 
Prunella  whispered.  "  Do  look  at  her  picture 
hat.  She  '11  have  to  take  it  off.  I  wonder  if 
she  's  got  her  shoes  on.  I  suppose  they  're  burst- 
ing with  pride." 

Olivia  laughed  at  Prunella's  incoherence. 

"  And  there  are  the  Joyces.  She  's  a  beauty 
if  there  ever  was  one.  She  's  like  —  like  —  " 

"  Like  mignonette  ?  "  Miss  Kirk  whispered. 

"  Yes,  just  like  mignonette,"  Prunella  an- 
swered gently.  "  And  do  look  at  Patrick,  Olivia. 
He  's  stunning." 

Olivia  looked,  then  reddened  and  looked  away. 
179 


THE   INVADERS 


Why  she  reddened  she  did  not  know.  There 
was  nothing  to  see  of  the  Joyces  but  the  broad 
back  and  fine  white  head  of  Mr.  Michael  Joyce ; 
the  profile,.in  softest  white  gown,  of  Miss  Joyce, 
studying  her  programme  ;  and  then  against  the 
window,  with  his  arm  on  the  sill,  and  his  eyes 
fixed  abstractedly  on  the  bare  stage  with  the 
grand  piano  labeled  "  Weber,"  Mr.  Patrick 
Joyce.  And  yet,  as  she  looked  away,  there  came 
to  Olivia  a  little  tremor  of  excitement  at  the 
thought  that  they  were  to  be  greeted  sometime 
during  the  evening.  As  foolish  as  the  redden- 
ing was  the  little  excitement.  But  unmistakable 
was  the  relief  of  finding  how  irreproachable  he 
was  in  his  evening  clothes.  Somehow,  the  boat- 
ride  on  Ashton  Ponds  was  not  half  so  much  of 
a  condescension  if  he  could  look  as  well  as  that. 
Her  mother  would  not  have  been  quite  so  much 
amused  if  she  could  have  known  that  he  could 
look  as  well  as  that.  ^ 

But  Prunella  was  excited,  too.  After  they 
were  seated,  Miss  Kirk  kept  her  thin  hand  with 
its  jet  and  seed-pearl  ring  on  Prunella's  arm, 
and  Prunella  looked  round  and  reported. 

"  That 's  Miss  Mortimer,  there  in  lavender 
and  old  lace.  She  sings  first,  does  n't  she  ?  " 
And  Prunella  looked  at  her  programme.  " '  The 
180 


THEN   STEFAN  PLAYED 


Rosary,'  Nevin.  '  Because,'  Lamb.  Miss  Isabel 
Geraldine  Mortimer,"  she  read.  "  My,  what  a 
name  !  And  this  is  about  as  bad:  l  Mr.  Stefan 
Posadowski.'  I  could  n't  even  try  to  pronounce 
what  he 's  going  to  play  except  *  polonaise.' 
And  that  sounds  silly,  don't  you  think  so,  Miss 
Kirk?  Oh,  there's  Mrs.  Clabby,  Olivia.  Do 
look  !  Do  look  at  the  magenta  waist  with  the 
jet  trimmings !  There 's  Aunt  Lou.  You  're 
next  Olivia,  Aunt  Lou." 

And  then  by  the  time  Miss  Hollins  was  seated 
and  had  smoothed  out  her  black  china  silk  so 
as  not  to  wrinkle  it,  and  was  holding  the  pro- 
gramme close  to  her  nearsighted  eyes,  there 
came  the  hush  of  beginning. 

"  Oh,  dear  !  I  wish  we  could  talk.  I  hate  the 
old  music !  "  Prunella  whispered. 

Miss  Kirk  pressed  her  hand.  "  You  won't 
always,"  she  whispered  back. 

Prunella's  delicate  face  grew  quickly  serious. 
Miss  Mortimer  had  swept  to  the  front  of  the 
stage  and  opened  her  music.  Mr.  Tilly,  the  or- 
ganist of  the  meeting-house,  went  to  the  piano. 
Miss  Mortimer  turned  and  smiled  engagingly  at 
him.  He  struck,  with  fine  appeal,  the  opening 
chord  of  her  first  song,  and  her  high,  thin  soprano 
followed.  When  she  had  finished  her  numbers, 
181 


THE   INVADEES 


and  accepted  her  bunch  of  Killarneys,  and  given 
"Annie  Laurie  "  for  an  encore,  and  Mrs.  Clabby 
had  wiped  her  eyes,  and  Mr.  Patrick  Joyce  had 
whispered  to  Bride  behind  his  programme,  there 
was  another  hush  and  a  little  wait.  Prunella's 
cheeks  flamed.  Olivia  yawned  and  let  her 
thoughts  go  to  cherry  omelets  in  the  Quartier 
Latin.  Then,  to  a  tremendous  applause  from 
the  corner  occupied  by  Mrs.  Wieniaski's  picture 
hat,  Mr.  Stefan  Posadowski  came  out  through 
the  door  on  the  left.  Prunella's  heart  gave  a 
little  jump.  Miss  Kirk  could  feel  it.  He  was 
very  pale,  and  very  clear-cut  and  classic  were 
the  lines  of  his  face,  with  his  dark  hair  tossed 
back  and  his  tragic  eyes  deep  with  excitement. 
Indeed,  his  face  in  its  severe,  tense  beauty,  was 
enough  to  make  Prunella  lose  a  heartbeat,  and 
much  more  than  enough  to  make  her  forget  his 
slim,  boyish  tallness  in  the  badly  fitting  black 
suit,  with  some  sort  of  foreign  medal  blazing  on 
the  lapel  of  his  coat  as  proudly  as  a  Victoria  Cross. 
He  bowed  quickly  and  awkwardly,  and  fled  to 
the  piano,  tossing  back  his  hair  and  looking  a 
little  dreamily  at  the  keys.  Olivia  sat  up.  Pru- 
nella's veins  throbbed  under  Miss  Kirk's  hand. 
The  applause  stopped.  For  a  little  minute,  the 
only  sound  was  the  locusts  outside  in  the  elms. 
182 


THEN  STEFAN  PLAYED 


Then  Stefan  played.  It  was  Chopin's  C  Minor 
Prelude,  in  the  great,  sombre  chords.  Olivia 
gave  a  quick  sigh.  Miss  Kirk's  little  old  hand 
felt  Prunella's  tide  turn.  Then  long,  long  me- 
mories quickened  her  own  heartbeats  under  the 
red  geranium  in  the  white  lace  jabot.  He  was 
bending  just  as  lovingly,  just  as  abstractedly 
over  the  keys  as  if  he  were  alone  in  the  empty 
parlor  at  the  Welling  place.  Prunella's  cheeks 
had  cooled  to  white  roses.  Miss  Hollins  was 
thinking  of  the  night  in  Boston  when  she  had 
heard  Blind  Tom.  And  over  across  the  hall, 
Patrick  Joyce  leaned  his  chin  in  his  palm  and 
looked  out  across  the  window  sill  into  the  dark. 
Was  it  about  the  sea  under  the  cliffs  at  Killery 
after  a  November  storm  that  he  was  playing? 
Or  was  it  about  the  passing  away  of  things,  the 
cry  of  the  change  here  in  the  New  World,  here 
in  the  valley,  where  the  old  homes  were  going 
to  strangers  away  from  those  who  loved  them  ? 
And  then  he  wondered  what  it  was  saying  to 
the  proud  young  woman  in  blue  over  on  the 
other  side  of  the  hall  —  what  this  strange  Polish 
boy  was  telling  her  whose  forefathers  had  owned 
the  valley.  So  interested  was  he  to  know  that 
he  looked  quickly  across  to  her.  In  that  swift 
glance,  he  saw  that  the  music  was  saying  much 
183 


THE   INVADERS 


as  she  leaned  a  little  forward,  a  bit  flushed,  but 
without  the  least  pride  in  the  look  of  her.  And 
then,  before  his  eyes  had  left  her,  hers  had 
turned  his  way  and  they  had  crossed  glances. 

When  Stefan  had  finished,  struck  the  last, 
long,  haunting  note,  and  the  applause  had  thun- 
dered out  and  the  cheering  rung,  and  Mrs. 
Wieniaski's  picture  hat  had  got  quite  awry,  he 
sat  still,  his  hands  on  the  keys,  waiting. 

"Did  n't  I  tell  you,  Prunella?  "  Miss  Hollins 
whispered. 

"  Oh,  yes ! "  Prunella  whispered  back  vaguely. 
She  had  grown  quite  unlike  herself  in  her  sud- 
den paleness  and  quiet. 

Miss  Kirk  had  taken  her  hand  away  and  was 
leaning  over  to  Olivia  to  say,  "  He  has  caught 
it  —  the  cry  of  the  heart.  And  that  is  genius." 

But  he  had  plunged  triumphantly  into  the 
Waltz  in  A  Flat,  and  then,  on  the  wing  of  its 
passion,  with  little  heed  for  the  applause  that 
it  brought,  had  gone  on  into  the  Fantaisie  in 
F  Minor.  His  long  brown  hands,  that  were  so 
slow  at  weeding  onions  and  setting  tobacco, 
gathered  up  splendid  ringing  handfuls  of  har- 
mony, and  followed  out  poignantly,  thrillingly, 
the  delicate  interludes  of  melody.  It  was  as 
though  he  were  saying  proudly,  "Now  that 
184 


you  believe  in  me,  now  that  you  are  beginning 
to  understand,  now  I  will  show  you  what  we 
are,  my  people,  at  home  in  our  own  sad,  brave 
land.  Now  you  shall  hear  the  ring  of  swords, 
the  laughter  of  beautiful  women,  the  tap  of 
high  heels  and  spurs  on  ballroom  floors.  Now 
you  shall  know  how  we  love  and  woo  and  suf- 
fer —  and  die,  die  —  we  Poles  whom  you  know 
only  as  onion-weeders  and  tobacco-setters."  And 
he  squared  his  shoulders  and  tossed  back  his 
hair,  and  looked  up  proudly,  dreamily,  half 
smiling,  down  over  the  faces,  as  he  went  on 
from  mazourka  to  mazourka,  into  the  C  Sharp 
Minor  Polonaise,  the  quiet  of  the  "G  Minor" 
and  the  G  Major  Nocturnes,  and  then,  with  a 
wild  turn  of  his  mood,  into  the  brilliant,  reck- 
less abandon  of  the  G  Minor  Ballade. 

Joyce  had  turned  his  back  to  the  window  and 
sat  leaning  towards  Bride.  Olivia  had  not  looked 
his  way  again.  She,  too,  was  pale  ;  and  beyond 
her,  across  Miss  Kirk's  rapt  face  with  its  blind 
eyes  and  its  little  smile,  Prunella  sat  very  still 
and  very  large-eyed. 

"  Wonderful !  Wonderful !  I  'm  so  glad  for 
him,"  Miss  Hollins  was  beginning  to  lean  over 
and  say.  "Blind  Tom  —  " 

But  Stefan  was  coming  back  from  his  daring 
185 


THE  INVADERS 


excursion  to  the  front  of  the  stage,  where  he 
had  achieved  a  solemn  and  awkward  bow.  He 
was  seating  himself,  but  for  a  moment  he  did 
not  play.  With  his  hands  on  the  keys,  he  looked 
off  across  the  upturned  faces,  over  beyond  Mrs. 
Wieniaski's  picture  hat,  to  Prunella  deep  in  her 
new  dreams.  As  he  looked,  smiling  faintly,  his 
fingers  began  to  move,  and  then  softly,  deli- 
cately, tenderly,  to  pick  out,  dashed  with  fantas- 
tic trills  and  surprises,  "  Yankee  Doodle."  On 
he  went,  at  last  taking  his  long  look  away  from 
Prunella,  tossing  his  melody  back  and  forth, 
chasing  it  up  and  down  in  all  sorts  of  liquid 
cadences,  dropping  it  into  minors  until  it  was 
heartbroken,  chromatic  scaling  it,  fuguing  it 
and  minuetting  it.  Then  suddenly,  he  stopped 
for  a  long,  questioning  moment,  and  again 
lifted  his  eyes  in  Prunella's  direction.  The 
audience  waited  breathless,  wondering  what 
next  was  to  be  done  to  them  by  this  ambition- 
less  young  man  who  thought  himself  too  good 
to  weed  onions  and  worm  tobacco.  But  this 
time  he  did  no  playing  with  them.  It  was  the 
"  Doxology  "  that  he  began  after  his  eyes  had 
come  back  to  watch  his  hands  peal  it  out  in 
grand  choral  fashion.  Then  again,  quite  sud- 
denly, the  music  stopped  and  he  was  gone.  In 
186 


THEN  STEFAN   PLAYED 


the  audience  there  was  a  little  gasp,  then 
laughter. 

Olivia  drew  a  long  breath  that  was  really 
a  sigh.  Dacre  would  have  loved  it.  And  how 
it  made  her  miss  him  —  all  that  passionate 
music.  It  did  not  seem  that  she  could  wait  all 
the  long,  indefinite  months  without  him.  And 
then  she  rose  and  found  Mr.  Patrick  Joyce 
coming  down  the  aisle  and  looking  at  her,  and 
she  bowed  and  half  smiled,  and  then  felt  Mrs. 
Archibald's  hand  on  her  arm.  And  all  the  while 
Miss  Hollins  was  getting  rosy  as  she  drew  Miss 
Kirk's  arm  through  hers  and  bowed  to  the 
Joyce  family  with  the  certainty  that  Jane 
Clabby's  eyes  were  on  her. 

"  It 's  been  wonderful,  ain't  it ! "  Mrs.  Archi- 
bald was  saying.  "Such  gettin'  over  the  keys 
I  never  did  see.  And  who  'd  'a'  thought  he  'd 
be  able  to  do  it,  just  a  common,  ordinary  Po- 
lander.  Of  course,  when  he  learns  more  he  '11 
play  real  music." 

"I  suppose  he  will,"  Olivia  said,  a  little 
vaguely.  She  was  watching  Prunella.  How 
pretty  she  looked,  how  wonderfully  pretty,  with 
her  faint  color  and  the  little  shadows  under  her 
eyes !  And  how  grandly,  with  what  an  air  for 
simple  Prunella,  she  was  bowing  to  everybody ! 
187 


THE  INVADERS 


Between  the  parsonage  and  the  Polish  church, 
Stefan  was  waiting  for  Father  Zujewski.  He 
was  lying  on  the  grass  by  the  roadside,  looking 
up  at  the  thick  stars,  hearing  that  last  ballade 
as  his  eyes  went  from  star  to  star,  thinking  and 
thinking  of  how  her  color  had  faded  as  he  had 
played.  Each  time  he  had  looked,  her  face  had 
said  more.  And  he  —  he  had  swayed  her! 

Then  he  heard  Father  Zujewski's  quick  step. 

"  My  boy  !  It  was  superb,  what  you  have 
done,"  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand.  "  You 
have  the  great  gift.  God  has  been  good." 

Stefan  sprang  up  and  took  his  hand.  "  And 
now  do  they  see  ?  "  he  said  breathlessly.  "  Now 
will  they  believe  that  there  is  something  better 
than  onions  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  Now  they  see.  And  you  are  to  go 
away.  Some  way  they  will  get  the  money.  And 
you  are  to  go  home,  to  Poland,  and  make  your- 
self— " 

"  But  to  go  away !  "  Stefan  interrupted  hotly. 
"  That  I  will  not  do.  If  I  go  away,  then  I  will 
have  no  gift.  It  is  here  it  has  come  to  me." 

"  But  to  study  you  must  go  away.  With  the 
help  of  God  you  will  be  ever  greater  and 
greater.  With  the  help  of  God!  The  gift  is 
from  God." 

188 


THEN   STEFAN  PLAYED 


They  were  turning  in  at  the  rectory  gate. 
One  window  in  the  little  church  glowed  red 
from  the  sanctuary  lamp.  Stefan  was  silent. 

On  the  doorstep  he  paused.  "  I  cannot  go  in. 
I  cannot  talk  now,"  he  said  slowly.  "  But  you 
must  not  tell  them  to  send  me  away.  If  the  gift 
is  from  God,  then  God  has  —  has  sent  it  to  me 
by  —  by  her." 

"  By  her  ! "  exclaimed  the  other.  "  Truly  by 
her,  by  your  mother  who  gave  you  her  great 
gift  in  another  form." 

Stefan  wheeled  about  impatiently.  "  Ach,  no ! 
Not  by  my  mother.  By  a  —  by  a  girl !  " 

The  priest  put  his  hand  on  the  big  boy's 
shoulder.  "  Then,"  he  said  softly,  —  "  then 
have  you  two  gifts  from  God.  And  for  the 
second  gift,  you  must  do  that  thing  which  is 
highest  with  the  first.  Is  it  not  so  ?  " 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE   ECHOES 

THAT  night,  over  silent,  moonlit  Fernfield, 
Diana  and  Venus  were  in  the  ascendant. 

Olivia,  in  from  the  August  dews,  white  and 
large-eyed  and  very  animated,  had  for  answer 
to  her  mother's  yawning,  "  Well,  how  was  it  ? 
Was  the  music  endurable?  And  who  was 
there?" 

"  Why,  everybody  —  Polanders  galore  —  and 
—  and  the  Joyces.  And  Patrick  Joyce  fear- 
fully correct  in  a  Tuxedo.  Imagine  it,  Mamma ! 
And  the  music  was  quite  thrilling  and  magni- 
ficent. He's  a  genius,  that  Polish  boy.  And, 
Mamma,  you  ought  to  have  seen  Prunella. 
Stirred  does  n't  describe  her !  Prunella,  of  all 
people ! " 

Two  hours  later,  the  full  tide  of  the  even- 
ing's agitation  throbbed  in  her  own  soul,  as 
she  sat  by  the  window  in  the  moonlight,  and 
leaned  her  hot  cheek  on  her  cool,  bare  arms. 
To  the  beat  of  Stefan's  music  she  heard  the 
newly  intricate  theme  of  her  own  life.  Outside, 
190 


THE  ECHOES 


silent  and  misty,  lay  the  dear  garden  and  fields 
that  were  slipping  away,  unless  she  were  going 
to  save  them.  From  across  the  hall  came  her 
mother's  tired  breathing.  All  around  waited 
the  conscious  stillness  of  the  old  house.  And 
in  her  heart  burned  her  secret  with  its  strange 
new  bitterness.  Wasn't  it  in  him  to  be  earn- 
est, to  go  to  work  seriously  ?  As  yet  in  his  let- 
ters he  had  talked  only  of  the  joy  of  Paris,  of 
the  good  times  and  the  pretty  models.  And 
now  there  was  this  little  Sicilienne  who  could 
make  the  omelets !  She  was  to  be  his  picture,  the 
serious  work  that  meant  his  beginning  as  an 
artist.  He  was  painting  her  eating  cherries  in  the 
window  of  the  little  studio  against  the  plants 
and  the  birdcage.  That  is  what  Olivia  Ladd's 
lover  was  doing  in  Paris !  And  here  at  home, 
what  was  she  doing  ?  There  were  the  debts  and 
the  changes  and  —  and  the  future !  She  in- 
stinctively shut  her  eyes  in  fear  of  it  and  buried 
her  face  in  her  arms.  And  to-morrow  there 
were  those  cold-frames  to  make,  and  the  men  to 
engage  for  the  fall  ploughing.  She  welcomed 
the  prosaic  turn  of  her  thought  and  rested  a 
moment  in  it.  Then,  quite  irrelevantly,  with 
almost  absurd  inconsequence,  there  flashed  be- 
fore her  mind's  eye  Patrick  Joyce's  firm  hands 


THE  INVADERS 


on  the  oars,  and  she  heard  his  soft  brogue  as 
he  said,  "  Faith,  and  it 's  what  I  never  would  do, 
take  away  the  old  places  from  those  who  love 
them." 

Just  about  this  time,  Miss  Hollins,  in  her 
big  mahogany  f  ourposter,  woke  suddenly  at  the 
sound  of  her  own  voice,  saying,  — 

"  I  '11  get  you  the  hot-water  bag,  Prunella. 
And  the  papoid  tablets  are  on  the  dresser.  I 
knew  that  lobster  was  n't  fresh." 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Lou,  it  is  n't  the  lobster  at  all. 
You  've  been  dreaming .  I  'm  not  sick.  I  'm  just 
—  just  —  just  a  baby,"  Prunella  was  sobbing, 
down  among  the  pillows. 

Miss  Hollins  drew  her  close  and  patted  her 
white  shoulder. 

"  Somehow  —  somehow  that  music  got  me  all 
stirred  up,  Aunt  Lou.  Does  music  always,  do 
you  suppose?  Always  make  you  want  some- 
thing awfully  that  you  can't  get,  and  you  don't 
know  what  it  is  ?  " 

"  Of  course  it  does.  That 's  what  makes 
music  so  nice.  But  if  you  don't  know  what  you 
want,  how  do  you  know  that  you  are  n't  going 
to  get  it,  sometime  ?  That  is  the  way  I  look  at 
it,  Prunella.  Why,  that  night  I  heard  Blind 
Tom  I  just  could  n't  settle  down.  I  remember 
192 


THE   ECHOES 


just  as  well  as  if  it  were  yesterday.  Mother 
thought  I  was  crazy.  But  it  seemed  as  if  I 
could  n't  stay  in  bed,  so  I  went  downstairs  and 
labeled  jelly  till  morning.  But  you  try  —  try 
to  sleep,  dear.  Think  of  fields  of  gentian  or 
lady-slipper  or  wild  roses,  and  count  as  you 
pick.  You  '11  be  asleep  before  you  know  it." 

So  Prunella  obediently  nestled  her  dark  head 
on  Miss  Hollins's  shoulder  and  seemingly  gath- 
ered blossoms  until  she  lost  her  way  in  deep 
fields  of  slumber. 

Up  at  the  old  Rollins  place,  an  hour  after  the 
automobile  had  whirled  around  under  the  maples 
and  gone  to  bed  in  the  wistaria-covered  garage, 
Bride  Joyce  turned  out  the  electric  light  and 
threw  wide  her  curtains.  She  had  read  her  New 
Testament  and  her  a  Kempis,  and  said  her  night 
prayers,  and  now  the  moonlight  twinkled  on 
her  little  crystal  rosary  as  she  sat  on  the  window 
ledge  and  looked  out  over  the  moonlit  lawn  with 
the  black  tree  shadows,  to  the  full,  ripe  tobacco 
fields  beyond.  The  air  was  sweetly  rank  with 
the  fragrance  of  the  dewy  tobacco,  and  vibrant 
with  the  responses  of  katydids.  So  bright  was 
the  moon  that  Bride's  clinging  negligee  lost 
little  of  its  delicate  pink,  and  her  long  braids 
but  little  of  their  brown  as  she  leaned  her  head 
193 


THE   INVADERS 


against  the  window  and  let  the  beads  slip  slowly 
through  her  fingers. 

When  she  had  gone  almost  the  twinkling 
round  of  the  chaplet,  the  odor  of  a  pipe  and  a 
step  on  the  gravel  below  distracted  her  from 
angelical  salutations.  She  leaned  out  and  peered 
over  the  tangle  of  creeper  around  the  sill.  It 
was  Patrick,  still  in  his  evening  clothes.  He 
came  out  and  stood  for  a  long  moment  looking 
off  to  where  she  had  been  looking,  to  the  fields 
and  the  far  hills  in  the  silvery  haze.  Then  he 
began  to  walk  up  and  down,  up  and  down,  on 
the  turf  at  the  edge  of  the  gravel. 

"  He  '11  ruin  his  thin  shoes  in  the  wet,"  Bride 
was  thinking.  "  And  what 's  come  over  him,  at 
all,  a  great  sleeper  like  him,  without  a  nerve  in 
him,  that  he 's  not  asleep  in  his  bed,  instead  of 
moonin'  out  there  like  a  lovesick  gossoon. 
Faith,  it's  of  Aileen  he's  dreamin'.  And  it 
would  be  better  for  him  altogether  if  he  'd  stop 
dreamin'  of  her,  for  it 's  less  and  less  she  '11  be 
afther  dreamin'  of  him,  with  her  love  like  a 
feather  that 's  blown  by  every  wee  puff  of  wind." 

Then  she  leaned  out  again  through  the 
creepers  and  called  softly,  "  Pat,  shall  I  come 
down  ?  I  've  no  more  sleep  in  me  eyes  than  if 
it  were  broad  noon." 

194 


THE  ECHOES 


He  turned  and  came  over  under  her  window. 
"Yes,  come  down,"  he  answered  softly.  "It's 
too  beautiful  to  stay  in.  And  it's  not  late. 
Hear !  There 's  just  twelve  striking  now  in  the 
village." 

So  she  caught  up  the  long  white  cape  she 
had  worn  to  the  concert,  and  ran  down  to  him. 
From  her  Uncle  Mike's  room  there  came  the 
even  resonance  of  healthy  snores,  quite  regard- 
less of  the  evening's  music.  In  the  smoking- 
room,  under  the  lamp  on  the  centre  table,  lay 
an  open  letter.  Even  in  her  quick  passing,  she 
could  recognize  Aileen's  fine,  pointed  writing 
with  the  little  black  dashes. 

"  Y'  see,"  she  laughed  as  she  joined  him, 
"I'm  in  my  thin  slippers  and  I'll  be  afther 
doing  no  such  foolish  thing  as  walkin'  in  the 
wet  grass  like  yourself." 

"It  was  why  I  walked  on  the  grass,  that  the 
gravel  would  waken  y',"  he  said.  "  And  I  was 
just  thinking  the  seat  under  the  pine  tree  would 
be  better  than  walking  here  in  the  dews." 

As  they  went  under  the  low,  sweeping 
branches,  a  drowsy  bird  stirred  softly  above 
them,  and  they  sat  down  in  a  fine  spatterwork 
of  light  and  darkness. 

"  Was  it  the  coffee  for  supper  or  the  music 
195 


THE   INVADERS 


that 's  kept  y'  out  of  y'r  bed  ? "  Bride  asked, 
folding  her  cape  around  her.  "  The  coffee  was 
strong  enough  to  lift  y'  bodily  in  the  air,  but 
it  gladdened  the  heart,  sure." 

"  Oh,  I  had  n't  thought  of  going  to  bed,"  he 
said  lightly.  "  I  was  reading  after  you  left,  and 
then,  when  I  went  to  lock  the  front  door,  it 
looked  so  cool  and  inviting  out  here.  Y're  the 
girl  that  ought  to  have  been  long  ago  in  bed 
after  doing  enough  work  for  ten  the  size  of  y'." 

She  gave  a  quick  little  sigh.  "  Oh,  I  could  n't. 
The  letter  to-day  from  Sister  Ursula  would  n't 
leave  me  —  what  she  was  after  telling  of  the 
new  shrine  of  St.  John  in  the  convent  garden, 
and  the  children  hangin'  garlands  around  the 
neck  of  the  lamb,  and  poor  Katy  Finn's  dying 
and  leaving  a  wee  baby,  and  the  altar  linens 
they  're  bleachin'  on  the  green  by  the  brook. 
Faith,  I  know  I  'm  that  silly  to  be  thinkin'  of 
it,  Pat.  But  it  does  seem  that  if  I  could  just 
once  take  the  linen  all  drippin'  out  of  the  brook, 
and  spread  it  on  the  sweet  grass,  an'  see  the 
clouds  come  an'  go  over  it  an'  —  But  it 's  wicked 
I  am  to  be  thinkin'  of  home  when  I  have  y' 
an'  Uncle  Mike.  It 's  just  after  gettin'  the  letters 
that  my  heart  is  so  soft.  Y'  know  how  it  is, 
Pat." 

196 


THE   ECHOES 


"  Oh,  yes,  I  know  how  it  is,"  he  said  with  a 
long  pull  at  his  pipe,  "  But  it 's  not  for  shrines 
and  for  nuns  that  I  'm  softhearted,  sure.  It 's  to 
pull  at  the  nets  in  the  mists  off  Killery,  and  to 
bring  down  a  red  deer  in  Glen  Inagh  and  — 
and  to  hear  the  pipes  and  —  and  see  — "  His 
pipe  again  had  grown  cold  and  a  deal  of  puffing 
it  took  to  get  even  a  whiff  of  smoke. 

"  See  Aileen  dancin',  shure,"  Bride  added 
softly,  "light  as  the  leaf  shadows  there  on  the 
turf.  There 's  nowhere  so  light  a  dancer.  What- 
ever would  the  people  here  have  to  say  to  such 
dancin'!" 

The  pipe  was  once  more  alive.  "  What  would 
they,  indeed  !  Or  to  the  color  in  her  cheeks  and 
the  ripple  in  her  hair  and  the  roguish  eyes  of 
her!"  he  said  a  little  absently.  Then,  with  a 
swift  drop  in  his  voice,  "  But  it  was  not  of  her 
I  was  thinking  when  you  called,  Bride,"  he 
went  on.  "  It  was  n't  of  myself  and  —  and  such 
things  I  was  thinking.  Faith,  it  was  the  eyes  of 
that  proud  Miss  Ladd  that  I  've  been  seeing  ever 
since  the  music  to-night.  Y'  see,  knowing  the 
story  as  well  as  I  do,  I  can  read  the  trouble  in 
them.  And  a  man's  heart  aches  to  see  a  girl  so 
unafraid  when  everything  is  so  dead  against 
her." 

197 


THE   INVADERS 


"  Poor  thing !  "  Bride  exclaimed,  warmly. 
"  She 's  as  beautiful  and  proud-looking  as  Lady 
de  Lacy,  that  time  I  saw  her  at  Benediction  in 
the  convent.  But  then  it 's  worse  for  them  that 
are  proud,  when  they  are  unhappy,  for  there  's 
no  way  for  love  to  get  in  to  warm  the  hearts  of 
them.  And  if  Mr.  Welling  were  just  a  wee  bit 
more  —  more  like  you,  Pat,  and  Uncle  Mike  — 
with  a  little  more  of  a  head  on  him.  If  it  had 
been  y',  on  my  word,  y'd  never  have  gone  off 
and  left  her  all  —  " 

"  Welling !  Dacre  Welling  ?  That  young 
fool !  "  he  said  quickly.  "  And  what  has  he  to 
do  with  Miss  Ladd?" 

"  Why,  always  they  have  been  lovers.  Didn't 
y'  know  that,  Pat  ?  And  did  n't  I  tell  y',  that 
when  I  was  over  there  for  the  Major,  the  morn- 
ing of  the  funeral,  she  came  bringing  her  arms 
full  of  flowers,  and  I  saw  them  there  in  the  yard, 
the  two  of  them,  and  at  once  I  knew." 

"  No,  you  did  n't  tell  me,"  he  said.  "  So 
that's  the  way  of  it,  is  it!  And  he's  gone  off 
to  be  a  painter  and  left  her  to  face  things  alone. 
And  she  '11  be  true  to  him.  Y'  can  see  it  in  the 
eyes  of  her." 

"  Sure,  she  '11  be  true  to  him  if  she 's  prom- 
ised," Bride  said.  "  I  'd  know  that  by  the  look 
198 


THE  ECHOES 


of  her.  An'  it 's  as  good  as  bein'  married  to 
plight  y'r  troth.  But  then  —  sometimes  —  some- 
times—  "  she  stopped. 

A  whip-poor-will  off  towards  Mount  Toby 
mourned  softly.  A  light  cloud  shadowed  the 
moon. 

"  Sometimes  what?"  he  asked,  in  a  very  low 
voice. 

"  Oh,  it 's  not  what  I  ought  t'  be  talkin'  about 
— lovers  an'  such  things.  Always  the  nuns  have 
been  sayin'  that  such  things  are  the  secrets  God 
kapes.  But  then,  just  with  y',  Pat.  Why,  some- 
times—  sometimes  the  other  one  is  not  true, 
and  then  —  then  —  the  true  one  does  not  have 
to  be  true.  An'  —  an',  Pat,  —  y'll  forgive  me 
f 'r  sayin'  it,  dear,  but  when  my  heart  warns  me 
f 'r  y',  I  must  spake  " —  she  reached  out  for  his 
hand  and  got  his  warm  clasp  —  "an'  some- 
times I  fear  that  it 's  Aileen  '11  not  be  the  thrue 
wan,  with  all  the  lads  lovin'  her  an'  y'  so  far, 
an'  the  gay  heart  of  her  !  I  pray  God  y  '11  not 
break  y'r  heart,  dear.  It 's  what  Sister  Ursula 's 
just  afther  sayin'." 

"No,"  he  said,  still  in  the  same  low  tone, 
"  no,  I  '11  not  break  me  heart,  dear."  And  her 
hand  still  lay  in  his  warm  clasp. 

Out  of  a  long  stillness  she  spoke,  as  she  got 
199 


THE   INVADERS 


up  and  drew  her  cape  around  her  and  leaned 
over  to  kiss  him  on  his  forehead  and  make  a 
little  sign  of  the  cross  there. 

"  You  '11  be  comin'  in  soon,  Pat  ?  I  'm  quite 
chilled  with  the  dew.  An'  could  n't  y'  somehow 
tell  Miss  Ladd  that  Uncle  Mike  has  the  heart 
of  an  Irish  gentleman  in  him,  an'  that  she 
need  n't  be  sayin'  a  last  good-bye  to  her  garden 
when  the  frost  comes  ?  Can't  ye  tell  her  sort  of 
easylike  an'  gay,  Pat?" 

"  No,  I  can't  tell  her.  I  am  the  very  last  one 
that  can  tell  her,"  he  said.  "  Good-night,  dear. 
If  anyone  could,  you  could." 

"  Good-night,  dear.  I  '11  be  thinkin'  out  the 
way.  An'  soon  y'll  be  comin'  t'  bed?  The 
house  misses  y'  sittin'  out  here  in  the  night." 
And  she  went  away  over  the  dewy  grass. 

But  she  had  dreamed  herself  away  to  the  old 
country,  on  the  green  by  the  convent  brook, 
bleaching  her  linens  for  Patrick's  wedding  shirt, 
before  the  garden  was  left  to  the  shadows  and 
the  moon. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

COLD-FRAMES 

PURE  an'  it 's  a  lie,  the  very  name  of  thim,"  old 
Timothy  grumbled,  between  hammer-strokes. 
"It 's  could-frames  y*  call  thim,  and  God  knows 
they'll  be  could  enough  t'  freeze  anny  thing  that 
grows.  But  in  me  wee  garden  it  was  niver  to 
freeze  the  things  I  was  tryin'." 

"But  they  '11  be  warmer  than  the  outside  air, 
Timothy,"  Olivia  explained  amiably,  marking 
measurements  on  the  boards.  Although  her  eyes 
were  heavy  after  her  wakeful  night,  her  heart 
had  regained  some  of  its  lightness  in  the  fresh 
morning  air  out  in  the  old  south  garden.  "  You 
see,  it 's  just  to  distinguish  them  from  hot-beds, 
that  are  heated  with  manure,  and  these  are  n't 
heated  at  all.  You  will  see  when  the  young  let- 
tuces go  in  to-morrow,  and  then  in  a  little  while 
the  spinach  and  the  cabbage  and  the  parsley." 

Old  Timothy  had  three  nails  in  his  toothless 
mouth  and  many  more  in  the  sagging  pockets 
of  his  greasy  blue  overalls.  He  stopped  and 
rubbed  his  sleeve  over  his  red  face  with  its  bushy 
gray  whiskers.  "  Well,  thin,  it 's  the  same  as  it 
201 


THE   INVADERS 


is  with  cratures.  It 's  often  a  warrum  heart  goes 
by  a  could  name,"  he  said.  "  But,  my  wur-rd  ! 
How  it  is  y've  come  to  know  all  y'  say  y'  are 
afther  knowin'  about  gyardens  an'  f arrums  whin 
y've  niver  raised  as  much  as  a  burrd  seed  !  An' 
it  was  only  the  other  day  y'  were  sailin'  boats 
on  the  brook  with  the  Welling  b'y  — an'  now 
it 's  to  be  a  farmer  y're  tachin'  me." 

"  But,  then,  you  see,  I  've  grown  up,  Timothy, 
and  I  've  just  been  to  a  college  where  they  teach 
people  to  be  farmers,  and  to  raise  things  in  the 
cheapest  way  to  make  the  most  money,  and  —  " 

"  Thin  it 's  a  millyunaire  I  'd  ought  to  be, 
God  knows,  if  it 's  doin'  things  chape  that 
makes  the  money.  All  me  life  I  Ve  been  doin' 
things  so  chape  that  sometimes  I  niver  did  thim 
at  all,  and  niver  a  pinny  to  show  for  it." 

"And,  besides,  Timothy,"  Olivia  went  on 
abstractedly,  reaching  for  a  hammer  and  put- 
ting a  nail  daringly  into  place,  "  who  is  there  to 
do  it  if  I  don't?" 

"  God  love  y',  there 's  no  one,  unless  y'll  let 
the  ould  place  go  to  those  dirty  Polanders  that 's 
fillin'  the  valley.  The  divil  take  thim!  It's 
thim  that 's  makin'  the  money  be  doin'  things 
on  the  chape,  ivery  mother's  son  of  thim 
a-straddlin'  the  —  " 

202 


COLD-FRAMES 


"  Never  !  Never,  Timothy  !  "  Olivia  cried, 
hammering  her  finger  with  sudden  emphasis. 
"  Oh,  never,  if  I  can  move  a  finger  to  stop  it." 
The  pain  made  her  a  little  faint  and  she  sat 
down  on  the  lumber  pile  in  the  shade  of  the 
currant  bushes. 

Swallows  were  darting  around  the  eaves  of 
the  old  barn.  Ben,  Dacre's  setter,  was  barking 
at  the  cats  sunning  themselves  just  out  of  reach 
on  the  grape  arbor.  The  snow  of  the  clematis 
lay  in  fragrant  drifts  over  the  fence  between 
the  yard  and  the  garden,  and  glimmered  on 
the  walls  of  the  house  among  the  trees.  As 
snowy,  the  freshly  washed  dish  towels  fluttered 
on  the  line  at  the  kitchen  door.  In  the  sun- 
shiny stillness,  old  Timothy's  hammer-strokes 
sounded  sharp,  and  a  cow  bell  in  the  high  pas- 
ture like  a  tinkle  in  a  dream. 

"  It 's  loike  y'r  father  y'r  spakin',  God  rest 
him,  but  it 's  not  loike  Jm  y'r  wurrkin',  shure," 
the  old  man  was  rambling  on.  "  Niver  with  his 
two  hands  around  the  place  did  I  see  —  " 

Olivia  sprang  up,  wrapping  her  handkerchief 
around  the  bruised  finger.  Suddenly,  the  poign- 
ancy of  it  all  lay  bare  before  her. 

"  And,  Timothy,"  she  said  briskly,  "  now 
you  must  tell  me  something.  You  know  every- 
203 


THE   INVADERS 


body  around  here,  don't  you  ?  And  you  see  I  've 
been  away  so  much  and  Mamma  goes  around 
so  little.  I  must  have  some  men  to  work  for 
me  right  away.  We've  got  the  ploughing  to 
do  in  the  fields  where  I  'm  going  to  put  the 
winter  rye,  and  in  the  spring,  after  the  rye  is 
ploughed  under,  the  clover.  And  then  there 
are  the  fields  to  plough  right  away  for  the  tur- 
nips, and  all  the  fertilizers  to  spread.  And  at 
the  college  they  advise  farmers  to  make  their 
own  combinations.  Could  you  mix  fertilizers, 
do  you  think,  Timothy?  On  the  turnip  field, 
I  'm  going  to  put  five  cords  of  barnyard  manure 
and  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  of  muriate  of 
potash  per  acre.  And  then,  too,  the  insolu- 
ble — "  She  stopped  and  rubbed  her  eyes  a  mo- 
ment and  gave  a  little  laugh.  "Do  you  think 
you  could  get  some  men  to  work  for  me  regu- 
larly, Timothy  ?  " 

Timothy  had  taken  off  his  battered  straw  hat 
and  again  mopped  his  red  face  with  his  sleeve. 
"  God  love  y',  Miss,  y'll  be  afther  killin'  y'rself 
with  all  that  thinkin'.  An'  what  does  it  all 
come  to,  afther  all !  Take  it  aisy,  the  ould  far- 
rum,  loike  y'r  father  did,  an'  I  '11  wurrk  me  two 
hands  off  f'r  y'.  Shure  I  will.  Take  it  aisy,  for 
God's  sake." 

204 


COLD-FRAMES 


"And  you  will  get  me  some  men  for  the 
ploughing?"  Olivia  said,  a  little  tremblingly. 

"  Shure,  there 's  niver  a  man  to  be  had  in  the 
valley  whin  they  're  cuttin'  tobaccy,  an*  it 's 
next  week  they  begin,"  he  answered  a  little 
sulkily.  "  An'  such  wurrk  as  y'll  be  needin'  I 
I  can  do  f'r  y'  as  I  've  been  doin'  these  forty 
year,  an'  no  one  complainin'." 

"  Of  course,  of  course,  Timothy.  But,  then, 
you  can't  do  two  or  three  things  at  once.  And 
surely  you  do  know  of  some  men  to  do  what 
you  don't  want  to  be  doing." 

"  Divil  a  wan  do  I  know,  but  it 's  Mike  Joyce 
'd  be  tellin'  y'.  An',  faith,  y'll  not  be  wan  tin' 
anny  dirty  Polanders  around  ye,  an'  Mike  Joyce 
'11  give  y'  what 's  dacent.  From  the  same  county 
as  meself  he  came  in  the  ould  counthry,  did 
Mike  Joyce." 

"  Mr.  Joyce  !  "  she  said  slowly,  putting  an- 
other nail  in  place  with  great  deliberation. 
"  Mr.  Joyce  would  be  likely  to  know,  you 
think?" 

"  Shure,  an*  he 's  the  only  wan  as  would  be 
loikely  to  know.  My  wurrd,  but  young  Pat  him- 
self would  be  the  very  wan  for  y'r  ploughing. 
He  's  a  strappin'  lad,  an'  his  smile  'd  warrum 
up  y'r  could-frames,  it 's  that  friendly." 
205 


THE   INVADERS 


Olivia's  smile  was  not  even  perceptible.  "  I  '11 
see,"  she  said  shortly. 

And  that  afternoon  she  did  see. 

"But,  Mamma,  I've  just  got  to  have  the 
men,  if  I  am  ever  going  to  do  anything.  The 
really  critical  thing  is  this  matter  of  beginning 
—  of  getting  the  poor,  neglected  fields  into  a 
cultivable  condition  after  all  these  years,"  she 
was  saying,  as  she  put  away  the  thin  old  silver 
spoons  and  forks  in  the  deep  sideboard  drawer 
after  dinner. 

"It  seems  to  me,  dear,  the  really  critical 
thing  is  for  you  not  to  undertake  too  much  and 
wear  yourself  out.  Just  see  how  you  have  bruised 
your  hand,  doing  a  man's  work.  And  in  two 
weeks  school  will  begin  and  that  will  be  strain 
enough.  And  then,  anyhow,  it's  too  late  to 
save  —  " 

Olivia  shut  the  drawer  with  a  little  snap. 
"You  said,  Mamma  dear,  that  you  wouldn't 
hold  me  back.  I  know  I  can  do  it.  I  've  studied 
every  inch  of  the  land.  And  what 's  a  bruised 
finger!  In  a  year — " 

There  was  a  brittle  crash.  Mrs.  Ladd  had 
dropped  one  of  the  gold-rimmed  teacups. 

"  Never  mind,"  she  said,  stooping  to  pick  up 
the  pieces.  "  It 's  best  to  get  rid  of  cracked 
206 


COLD-FRAMES 


things,  anyhow.  Of  course  I  won't  hold  you 
back.  But  I  'm  afraid  of  these  old  fields." 

"  I  'm  not !  Our  fields ! "  Olivia  exclaimed.  "  I 
guess  not,  Mamma ! " 

And,  indeed,  she  did  not  look  afraid  of  fields 
or  fortune  when,  two  hours  later,  she  went 
down  the  shady  street  to  find  the  men  for  her 
ploughing.  Wholly  mistress  of  any  sort  of  situ- 
ation she  appeared  in  her  fresh  white  gown, 
with  the  gay  college  band  on  her  hat.  But 
under  the  letter  for  Dacre  hidden  in  her  blouse, 
her  heart  pounded  quite  wildly  at  the  thought 
of  whom  she  might,  or  might  not,  meet  in  the 
offices  of  the  Honorable  Selectmen  of  the  vil- 
lage of  Fernfield,  where,  two  months  before, 
she  had  taken  such  pleasure  in  telling  the  un- 
varnished truth.  This  time,  things  would  be 
very  different.  She  had  no  favor  to  ask.  It  was 
purely  a  matter  of  business.  And  should  she 
meet  Mr.  Michael  Joyce  himself,  it  would  make 
no  difference  whatever.  She  could  feel  her  eyes 
harden  at  the  very  thought  of  how  she  would 
look  at  Mr.  Michael  Joyce,  as  she  asked  quite 
calmly  about  the  men  for  the  ploughing,  and 
the  cost  of  their  hire.  Mr.  Joyce  would  under- 
stand that  she  understood  very  well  what  she 
was  doing.  And  should  it  be  Mr.  Patrick  Joyce, 
207 


THE   INVADERS 


why,  then,  even  more  brief  and  businesslike 
would  she  be.  The  boat-ride  on  Ashton  Ponds 
had  been,  perhaps,  a  little  mistake,  after  all. 
The  interview  would  be  quite  impersonal.  The 
only  pity  was  her  bruised  thumb.  But  she  could 
hold  it  shut  in  her  hand  around  "  Snyder's  Soils 
and  Fertilizers,"  which  she  was  taking  back  to 
the  library.  Still,  it  was  a  pity,  that  one  sign  of 
inefficiency  just  when  she  was  so  sure  of  her 
efficiency. 

However,  when  she  reached  the  town  hall, 
there  seemed  very  little  immediate  danger  of 
any  sort  of  meeting  with  any  sort  of  official, 
old  or  young.  Even  her  quick  footsteps  in  the 
empty  corridor  aroused  no  sign  of  life,  and  not 
even  when  she  tapped  most  peremptorily  at  the 
ground-glass  door  of  the  Honorable  Selectmen 
was  there  any  response.  So  she  stepped  into 
the  room,  quite  up  to  the  big  closed  desk  at 
which  she  had  sat  and  written  that  odious  ap- 
plication, before  she  perceived  in  an  inner  room, 
bent  over  another  desk,  and  seemingly  lost  in 
the  art  of  composition,  the  stalwart  form  of 
Mr.  Patrick  Joyce.  All  in  a  glance,  after  a 
woman's  fashion,  she  saw  before  him  an  open 
letter  of  voluminous  and  strictly  unbusiness- 
like appearance,  at  which  he  was  intently  gaz- 
208 


COLD-FRAMES 


ing,  his  pen  suspended  over  a  closely  written 
sheet,  his  head  propped  abstractedly  on  his 
hand. 

"If  you  please,"  she  said  breathlessly  and 
with  a  dash  of  haughty  reproach.  If  he  would 
be  so  inattentive  in  business  hours ! 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  colored  to  the 
crimson  of  his  tie. 

"  Miss  Ladd,  faith !  It 's  yourself  and  —  and 
y'  just  in  my  thoughts ! "  He  glanced  down  at 
the  desk,  at  which  she,  too,  had  glanced.  "  That 
is,  y'  had  just  been  in  my  thoughts."  He  had 
grown  even  more  crimson,  but  the  blush  of  a 
girl  was  rather  nice  on  his  clean-cut  face,  with 
its  very  honest  eyes. 

Olivia  laughed.  She  felt  tremendously  at 
ease. 

"  I  don't  see  why  —  or  how,"  she  said,  not  at 
all  as  she  had  expected  to  say  what  she  had  to 
say. 

He  pushed  forward  a  chair.  "  Will  you  not 
be  seated?"  he  said  carefully.  "It  is  the  way 
it  was,  I  was  answering  a  "  —  he  hesitated  a 
moment  and  pushed  the  papers  into  a  heap  on 
the  desk  —  "a  resignation  and  —  and  explain- 
ing that  —  it  was  quite  all  right  —  that  the  place 
could  —  could  perhaps  be  filled." 
209 


THE  INVADERS 


"Oh,  I  see,"  she  said.  "It  must  take  an  aw- 
ful lot  of  time  to  write  to  them  all." 

He  had  grown  a  shade  less  rosy,  and  suddenly 
there  came  into  his  eyes  a  gleam  of  laughter. 

"It  does,  indeed,  take  a  long  time — to 
make  things  quite  clear.  And  sometimes  young 
ladies  will  not  understand.  It  is  always  their 
own  way  they'll  be  wanting.  But  you  will  be 
seated?" 

"Oh,  it  Js  not  at  all  necessary,"  she  said 
coolly,  at  the  same  time  feeling  a  little  quicken- 
ing of  heartbeats  at  the  look  in  his  eyes.  What 
was  it  that  he  was  thinking  of  her  that  gave 
him  so  different  a  look,  a  little  bit  as  if  he  were 
laughing  at  her,  and  at  the  same  time  as  if  he 
were  sorry  for  himself?  "  I  have  come  wholly 
on  a  matter  of  business,  and  I  hoped  to  see 
your  uncle  about  it.  When  will  he  be  in?" 

Joyce  went  to  the  desk  and  turned  over  the 
leaves  of  a  gorgeous  calendar  chromoed  with  the 
many  uses  of  Perkins's  Perpetual  Paint.  Quite 
deliberately  he  ran  his  finger  down  a  page, 
frowning  a  little  in  his  perplexity. 

"Oh,  yes!  Of  course!  To-day  is  Thursday. 

He's  due  here  in  ten  minutes,  from  Buxton. 

The  third  Thursday  he 's  always  at  his  office  in 

Buxton  till  three-thirty,  and  then  he  makes  a 

210 


COLD-FRAMES 


quick  run  back  here,  the  way  he  '11  be  ready  to 
—  to  see  people  at  four-thirty."  He  took  out 
his  watch  as  deliberately.  "And  now  y'  see, 
it 's  four-twenty-one." 

"  Oh,  I  see.  Then  I  '11  wait,"  she  said,  sitting 
down  on  the  edge  of  the  chair.  "It's  about 
getting  some  men  for  my  ploughing  that  I  want 
to  see  your  uncle.  I  'm  getting  ready  to  put  in 
my  winter  rye  and  my  turnips,  and  of  course 
— of  course,  I  can't  do  the  ploughing — as  yet. 
I  'm  going  to,  though,  another  year." 

He  leaned  over  the  top  of  the  high  desk  chair, 
facing  her.  "  Of  course,"  he  said.  "  Why  not  ?  " 
But  he  was  watching  the  proud  tilt  of  her  chin 
and  the  tender  line  of  the  lips  under  their 
haughty  curl  and  the  swift  come  and  go  of  the 
delicate  color  as  she  said  her  proud  words,  or 
forgot  to  be  proud  and  laughed  as  a  girl  would 
laugh.  "  You  will  be  doing  whatever  you  make 
up  your  mind  that  you  will  do,"  he  added 
slowly.  And  he  had  found  the  bruised  thumb 
hidden  in  the  hand  that  held  closed  "Snyder's 
Fertilizers  "  and  she  knew  that  he  had  found  it. 

"  I  certainly  will,"  she  exclaimed  with  a  little 
laugh,  dropping  her  eyes. 

"  It  was  rather  nice,  the  concert,"  he  went 
on,  following  his  own  train  of  thought.  "  The 
211 


THE   INVADERS 


lad  brings  y'  a  glimpse  of  the  island,  sure,  in 
his  music." 

"  The  island!"  she  asked.  "What  island?" 

He  drew  himself  up  with  a  quick  breath. 
"  Oh,  I  was  forgetting  that  y'  don't  know  all  our 
sayings  in  Ireland.  And  they  're  pretty  sayings. 
And  when  there  is  very  beautiful  music,  or  a 
beautiful  scene,  or  —  or  when  two  friends  are 
together  and  are  everything  to  each  other,  then 
we  say  that  they  see  the  whole  of  the  island. 
It  is  a  fairy  island,  with  a  wall  of  fire  around 
it  that  moves  round  and  round,  and  has  an  open 
door  in  it.  And  when  sometimes  the  open  door 
comes  opposite  y',  then  y'  see  the  whole  island 
and  the  beautiful  trees  and  the  flowers  and  the 
happy  people  in  the  lovely  clothes,  and  y'  can 
hear  the  music  they  are  making.  But  it 's  not 
often  that  y'  —  " 

A  shrill  siren  whistled  outside. 

"  There 's  Uncle  Mike,"  he  broke  off  abruptly. 
"  You  see  I  calculated  pretty  well." 

Olivia  had  sprung  up  and  moved  nearer  the 
door.  "You  certainly  did,"  she  said.  "  And  it  is 
just  as  well.  I  could  n't  have  waited  any  longer." 
Her  heart  beat  close  under  her  soft  lace  collar, 
and  the  color  flashed  into  her  cheeks. 

A  quick  step  came  down  the  corridor. 
212 


COLD-FRAMES 


"  Hello,  Bill ! "  a  voice  called.  The  step  paused. 
"Why  don't  you  send  the  children  over  and 
let  them  eat  their  fill  of  peaches  ?  Sure,  it 's 
rotting  on  the  grass  they  are.  And  the  tomatoes 
are  waitin'  for  the  little  ones  to  come  with  their 
baskets  and  carry  them  home  for  cannin'.  Faith, 
y're  welcome  to  them,  me  b'y  !"  And  the  step 
came  on  accompanied  by  a  little  whistle. 

"  Are  y'  there,  Pat  ?  "  called  the  round, 
hearty  voice.  "  I  know  y're  not  lookin'  f 'r  me 
to-day,  but  we  finished  the  dale  over  at  Whitby, 
an'  we  've  ingaged  the  stame  rollers  at  Ouldfield 
an'  —  "  He  was  in  the  door,  taking  off  his  hat 
to  wipe  his  hot,  round  face  on  his  large  and 
immaculate  handkerchief,  his  linen  dustcoat 
open  over  his  blue  serge  and  his  immaculate 
white  waistcoat. 

"Faith,  it 's  MissLadd,  Uncle  Mike,"  Patrick 
said  quietly,  with  the  little  gleam  again  in  his 
eyes. 

Olivia  stood  very  straight  and  faintly  smil- 
ing. Mr.  Joyce  smiled  broadly  and  held  out  his 
hand. 

"  Sure,  I  should  have  known  Miss  Ladd,  in  a 
minute,  Pat,  if  y'd  have  given  me  toime.  It 's 
the  unexpectedness  of  the  mating,  y'  see.  But 
it 's  very  glad  I  am,  Miss  Ladd,  indade." 
213 


THE  INVADERS 


Olivia  gave  him  the  tips  of  her  white-gloved 
fingers.  "  I  don't  at  all  wonder,  Mr.  Joyce," 
she  said  formally.  "  It  is  rather  unexpected  — 
to  me  as  well  as  to  you.  But  I  have  come  to  see 
about  some  men  for  my  ploughing.  I  shall  need 
them  regularly  for  some  time,  to  get  in  my  tur- 
nips and  my  winter  rye.  And  —  and  my  man 
Timothy  tells  me  that  you  are  the  only  one  who 
can  get  them  for  me." 

She  rather  enjoyed  listening  to  her  own  nice 
enunciation,  hearing  herself  put  the  matter  into 
so  brief  and  businesslike  a  statement. 

Patrick  had  dropped  out  of  the  conversa- 
tion. But  she  was  quite  aware  of  him  as  he 
stood  at  the  desk  folding  the  voluminous  letter 
back  into  its  envelope  and  putting  it  into  his 
pocket. 

Mr.  Joyce  had  grown  wholly  formal  and  im- 
personal. 

"  I  see  !  I  see !  "  he  said,  feeling  for  the  eye- 
glasses on  their  little  black  ribbon.  "  And  will 
y'  not  be  sated,  Miss  Ladd  ?  " 

"Oh,  no,  thank  you,  it  is  such  a  matter  of 
a  moment.  It  is  too  bad  to  trouble  you  when  — 
when  — "  She  hesitated  and  wished  that  Patrick 
had  not  turned  and  leaned  again  over  the  top 
of  the  desk  chair. 

214 


COLD-FRAMES 


"  Sure,  and  it 's  no  trouble,  Miss  Ladd.  It 's 
gladly  I  '11  get  y'  the  men.  But  it 's  good  lads 
y'  must  have  to  wor-rk  f'r  y'.  And  about  how 
many  would  y'  be  wan  tin'  ?  "  He  was  looking 
at  her  quite  as  she  liked  a  business  man  to  look 
at  her  —  just  as  if  she  were  also  a  business  man ; 
and  her  heart  had  now  slowed  down  from  its 
wild  beating.  Of  course,  he  was  thinking  that 
it  was  for  his  interest  to  send  her  men  that  would 
do  the  work  well. 

"  Oh,  about  three  —  or  two  —  "  she  said. 
"  You  see,  I  've  arranged  to  go  shares  on  to- 
bacco with  Tony  Wyzocki  in  all  the  river  bot- 
tom lands  and  it 's  only  for  the  upper  fields  that 
I  need  them.  And  if  they  could  come  right 
away  —  to-morrow,  perhaps." 

"  Sure,  they  can.  I  '11  have  thim  there  bright 
and  early.  And  I  thank  y'  for  comin'."  Now 
he  permitted  himself  a  quiet,  wholly  deferential 
smile.  "  It  will  give  me  great  pleasure  to  find 
thim  f'r  y'." 

"  Thank  you  very  much  !  Good-afternoon  !  " 
She  was  turning  to  go,  a  little  frightened  at  the 
sudden  formality  of  their  bows,  and  of  Patrick's 
quite  unnecessary  holding  open  the  already 
open  door.  Then  she  remembered  just  in  time 
to  save  her  reputation  as  a  practical  farmer. 
215 


THE   INVADERS 


"  And  the  price  ? "  she   said,  a  little  timidly, 
from  the  threshold. 

"  Of  course  !  Y  '11  excuse  me  f  orgettin'  to  be 
businesslike,"  Mr.  Joyce  exclaimed  apologetic- 
ally. "  It 's  well  always  to  know,  an'  that 's 
where  y'  show  y  're  a  manager,  Miss  Ladd.  The 
price,  in  these  busy  times,  will  be  —  let  me  see, 
Pat !  Can  y'  remember  just  what  the  lads  get  ? 
I  have  it.  Sivinty-five  cints  the  day,  Miss  Ladd, 
an*  they  bringin'  their  dinner." 

"  Oh,  thank  you.  That  will  be  very  satisfac- 
tory," she  murmured,  and  made  her  trembling 
lips  into  a  little  smile  and  went  away  down  the 
hall  with  light  footsteps  that  to  her  seemed  as 
loud  and  heavy  as  a  giant's. 

"  The  swatest  angel  that  iver  fell  from  Heaven 
f'r  the  sin  of  pride,  Pat,  me  b'y  ! "  Mr.  Joyce 
exclaimed  in  a  loud  whisper  when  the  quick 
footsteps  had  died  away.  "  An'  the  innocince 
of  her  !  We  '11  get  the  ploughing  done  for  her 
in  f  oine  shape.  It 's  Dinny  Finn  an'  Jerry  Toole 
we  '11  take  from  the  potatoes  an'  send  to  her  — 
with  private  instructions."  He  chuckled  and 
rubbed  his  hands.  "  Faith,  the  child  's  thrying 
to  save  the  ould  place  !  I  see  the  game  of  her  ! 
It 's  the  loike  of  her  that  would  comfort  Bride 
whin  she  's  missin'  the  ould  counthry." 
216 


COLD-FRAMES 


"  But  you  '11  have  to  be  that  careful,  Uncle 
Mike.  She  's  very  fine  and  cold  and  —  and  dif- 
ferent. And  she  's  almost  ready  to  —  to  hate 
us !  And  if  she  did,  it — it  would  be  for  always." 
Patrick  was  piling  up  the  papers  on  the  desk 
and  closing  it,  and  there  was  a  little  line  be- 
tween his  level  brows. 

The  older  man  had  dropped  into  a  chair  and 
sat  frowning  a  little,  too,  but  rather  whimsically 
and  humorously,  tapping  his  firm  white  teeth 
with  his  eyeglasses. 

"  Faith,  it 's  little  y'  know  about  gir-rls,  Pat. 
She  's  foine,  as  y'  say,  an'  she  's  different,  but, 
my  word !  she 's  not  could.  An'  I  know  the 
story  much  better  than  y'  do,  an'  I  know  what 
I  'm  tellin'  y'.  The  wor-rst  of  the  hatin'  is  over, 
thank  God !  It 's  the  mother  can  hate.  But  this 
lass  !  She  's  swate  an'  she  's  strong  an'  she 's 
thrue,  Pat.  Lord,  an'  it 's  a  pretty  game  she  's 
playin'  ould  Joyce  —  and  she  '11  win,  Pat,  or 
I  'm  a  Yankee."  And  at  intervals  all  the  way 
home,  in  the  motor  car,  Mr.  Joyce  chuckled  at 
Olivia's  little  game. 

It  was  the  next  morning  that  old  Timothy, 

trudging  to  the  village  in  the  companionship  of 

his  stubby  clay  pipe  and  his  old,  old  thoughts, 

was  overtaken  by  a  miracle.  In  his  deafness, 

217 


THE   INVADERS 


he  heard  no  warning  of  approaching  wonders, 
and  was  as  astonished  as  if  Elijah's  chariot  had 
dropped  down  for  him,  when  a  shining  motor- 
car slowed  down  into  the  grass  beside  him,  and 
a  young  gentleman  at  the  wheel  called  out 
gayly,— 

"  Good-day  t'  ye,  Timothy,  my  man !  The 
top  of  the  mornin'  t'  ye !  Will  ye  ride  ?  I  '11 
take  y'  anywhere  y'll  be  going." 

"  Will  I  ride !  Begorra,  it 's  jokin'  me,  y' 
are.  Me  wid  me  ould  clothes  an'  me  ould  pipe  ! 
But  it  'd  be  the  joke  on  ye  f 'r  me  to  ride  wid 
ye,  me  b'y."  And  he  stretched  his  toothless  old 
mouth  in  delight  and  put  his  pipe  in  his  pocket. 
"  I  was  niver  wance  in  one  of  thim  things." 

"Climb  in!  Climb  in!"  Patrick  said  en- 
couragingly, helping  him.  "And  now,  where 
is  it  y're  going  this  fine  morning  ?  " 

Timothy  settled  himself  back  in  the  seat, 
gripping  the  sides  firmly  as  the  car  swung  out 
into  the  road  and  whirled  off.  "  Sure,  it 's  to  me 
regular  job  I  'm  goin',  at  Mrs.  Ladd's,"  he  said. 
"  It 's  forty  year  I  've  been  worrukin'  for  her 
family,  God  love  the  poor  lady  !  And  now  it 's 
the  young  lady  that 's  goin'  to  run  the  farrum, 
with  her  talk  about  ploughin'  an'  mixin'  messes 
t'  improve  the  sile,  an'  mashin'  her  thumb  with 
218 


COLD-FRAMES 


a  tack-hammer  an'  a  shingle  nail.  But  she's  a 
plucky  wan,  an'  God  knows  it 's  in  a  bad  way, 
is  the  ould  place." 

When  the  machine  stopped  at  the  Ladds' 
side  gate,  and  old  Timothy  carefully  alighted, 
Joyce  tucked  a  dollar  into  his  horny  hand.  "  For 
tobacco  and  a  new  pipe,"  he  said.  "  You  're  all 
right,  Timothy !  " 

As  he  spoke,  he  caught  sight  of  a  girl  in  a 
short  khaki  skirt  just  vanishing  through  the 
garden  gate.  Her  sleeves  were  rolled  high,  and 
she  bore  a  tray  of  young  cabbage  plants. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

HOT-BEDS 

JTRUNELLA  had  kept  her  Sunday-School  class 
after  the  others,  to  finish  telling  them  about  the 
Thessalonians.  There  was  still  half  a  page  of 
notes  in  her  little  brown  notebook,  when  Mrs. 
Archibald  and  Mrs.  Egerton  and  Miss  Sarah 
Tibbetts  let  their  children  go.  And  Miss  Sarah 
was  always  slow.  But  Prunella  was  sure  she  was 
justified  in  finishing  the  Thessalonians,  even  if 
little  Elizabeth  Chase  had  dropped  her  small, 
limp  pocket  handkerchief  a  dozen  times,  and 
Thomas  Dickinson  had  yawned  and  stretched 
until  his  red  necktie  had  wriggled  quite  around 
to  his  ear.  It  was  a  heavy,  languid  August  day, 
and  Prunella  herself  would  have  preferred  the 
hammock  to  the  Thessalonians. 

When,  however,  she  had  fairly  and  tho- 
roughly disposed  of  St.  Paul's  converts,  and 
started  down  the  meeting-house  steps,  she  was 
rewarded  for  her  efforts.  Dr.  Britton  came 
along  briskly  behind  her,  and  called  out 
heartily,  — 

220 


HOT-BEDS 


"  Good-morning,  Prunella  !  Your  little  folks 
so  interested  they  kept  you  after  school  ?  That 's 
a  good  sign,  anyhow  !  I  wish  there  were  more 
like  you."  And  he  fell  into  her  step  and  tucked 
his  sermon  book  under  his  arm  as  he  drew  on 
his  gray  lisle  gloves. 

"  Oh,  no !  It  was  the  Thessalonians  we  had 
to  finish.  It  seemed  better  not  to  stop  in  the 
middle  of  them."  And  Prunella  lifted  her  best 
pink  lawn  carefully  as  they  stepped  into  the 
dust  of  the  wide,  unpaved  street. 

All  around  them  was  the  stillness  of  the  hot 
Sabbath  noon.  Everything  was  quite  deserted 
except  for  Dr.  Barker's  buggy  and  sleepy  white 
horse  hitched  to  Mrs.  Clabby's  gatepost.  Mrs. 
Clabby  was  having  her  hay  fever  with  a  twinge 
of  rheumatism.  The  only  other  sign  of  life  was 
Solomon,  her  cat,  jumping  at  grasshoppers  in 
the  long  grass,  by  the  road.  On  each  side,  the 
old  street  stretched  off  dreamfully  towards  the 
fields,  where  ripened  onions  bronzed  in  the  thick 
sunshine,  or  tall,  lush  tobacco  opened  its  pink- 
ish bloom. 

"I  liked  your  sermon,  Dr.  Britton,"  Pru- 
nella was  going  on,  picking  her  steps.  "  It  was 
the  helpful  kind.  I  hate  the  —  the  fancy  ones 
other  people  preach." 

221 


THE   INVADERS 


Dr.  Britton  laughed.  "  Thank  you,  Prunella. 
I  'm  glad  I  helped.  But  it  was  n't  the  preacher, 
after  all.  That  text  preaches  itself." 

"  But  somehow  you  made  it  just  fit.  I  guess 
it 's  because  it 's  what  I  'm  always  doing  — 
judging  people  with  a  jump  and  then  being 
spiteful.  Aunt  Lou  says  so."  She  was  looking 
down,  frowning  a  little  under  the  brim  of  her 
rose-trimmed  hat  as  she  accused  herself. 

"  I  don't  believe  it,  my  dear !  I  know  you  as 
well  as  you  know  yourself  —  guess  so,  after 
marrying  your  father  and  mother  and  baptizing 
you  and  watching  you  grow,  every  inch  of  you." 

She  looked  at  him  quite  directly  with  her 
soft  dark  eyes  as  a  child  might  have  done. 

"  Oh,  Dr.  Britton,  you  don't  know  me  since 

—  since  I've  been  grown  up  enough  to  —  to 
understand.  I  'm  always  in  a  hurry  and  always 

—  cross  inside.  And  you  used  to  talk  to  Olivia 
and  me  about  sweetness  and  light.  I  don't  have 
time." 

He  put  his  hand  quickly  and  half  caressingly 
on  her  pink  muslin  sleeve.  "  But,  my  dear,  you 
are  sweetness  and  light!  I  remember  how  I 
used  to  talk  to  you  children.  I  was  deep  in 
Arnold.  But  I  didn't  see  ahead  into  —  into 
to-day.  I  didn't  see  the  old  homes  gone  —  the 
222 


HOT-BEDS 


old  church  half  empty  —  the  —  the  invaders 
pouring  in."  His  face  had  grown  grave,  and  he 
finished  with  a  sigh. 

A  faint,  slow  color  came  up  from  Prunella's 
little  lace  neckfrill. 

"  There  !  "  she  said  quickly.  "  That 's  where 
I  knew  the  sermon  fitted  me  so  pat.  I  've  been 
so  —  so  un-Christian  about  the  —  the  new  peo- 
ple. I  've  just  loathed  them  all,  Dr.  Britton. 
And  now  I  see.  They  are  n't  —  are  n't  all  as  I 
thought."  The  faint  color  had  reached  Pru- 
nella's little  ears. 

Dr.  Britton's  chin  had  sunk  thoughtfully  into 
his  crisp,  snowy  collar.  "  They  are  very  wonder- 
ful, the  new  people,"  he  said  gravely.  "  I  am 
convinced  that  in  one  way  they  are  a  —  a  chosen 
people.  Not  chosen  as  the  Israelites  were.  Not 
chosen  in  that  sense  at  all.  But  chosen  to  —  to 
work  out  our  destiny,  Prunella.  God  knows 
how  !  I  felt  it  very  strongly  —  very,  very 
strongly  —  at  the  concert  the  other  night.  It 
was  quite  remarkable." 

Prunella  said  nothing,  but  her  cheeks  had 
caught  the  flush. 

"  What  that  young  man  did  was  quite  tre- 
mendous, Prunella.  He  is  a  genius.  God  has 
called  him  to  a  wonderful  career.  And  when  he 
223 


THE   INVADERS 


held  that  strangely  assorted  crowd  of  people 
spellbound  as  he  poured  out  the  music  of  his 
own  land  —  spellbound  —  and  then  stirred  them 
all  with  an  American  national  air  —  and  then 
lifted  them  all  into  the  '  Doxology  '  —  it  —  it 
was  immense,  Prunella.  You  must  have  felt  it, 
my  dear ! " 

"  I  did,  I  think,"  she  said  faintly. 

They  had  reached  Miss  Hollins's  gate. 
Prunella  paused. 

"  Oh,  they  're  a  wonderful  people,"  Dr.  Brit- 
ton  was  going  on.  "  But  it 's  a  great  pity  !  A 
great  pity.  And  he 's  a  wonderful  boy.  I  Ve 
heard  his  history,  from  the  priest.  He  has 
noble  —  " 

"  Why,  Dr.  Britton  !  You  're  coming  right  in 
to  dinner,  are  n't  you  ?  "  Miss  Hollins  called 
out  from  under  the  clematis  on  the  porch. 
"  Roast  lamb  and  peas,  and  a  hearty  welcome ! " 

"  Prunella's  peas?  "  he  called  back.  "I  wish 
I  could !  " 

"  No,  not  Prunella's  peas  this  time.  Prunella's 
garden 's  been  all  burned  up  by  the  dry  weather. 
Now,  do  come,  Dr.  Britton."  And  Miss  Hollins 
came  down  the  steps  with  a  fly-swatter  in  her 
hand,  flourishing  it  cordially. 

"  Not  to-day,  thank  you,"  he  said,  holding 
224 


HOT-BEDS 


bis  straw  hat  most  gallantly  in  spite  of  the  sun. 
"  I  have  Deacon  and  Mrs.  Archibald  coming  to 
dinner  to  try  my  own  peas.  But  next  Sunday, 
perhaps." 

"  Do,  please!  "  Prunella  smiled  warmly.  "And 
thank  you  so  much  !  " 

"What  were  you  thanking  Dr.  Britton  for?  " 
Miss  Hollins  asked  as  they  went  into  the  house. 
"  Dinner  's  all  ready.  You  've  been  awfully 
slow.  Was  it  about  the  post-office  ?  " 

"  No,  it  was  not  about  the  post-office.  I  don't 
know  what  it  was  for,  Aunt  Lou.  He  was  just  — 
just  nice,  that 's  all."  And  Prunella  smoothed 
out  her  little  silk  gloves  and  rolled  them  into 
a  neat  ball.  "I'll  cut  the  bread,"  she  said, 
smiling  a  little  dreamily. 

That  night  at  nine-thirty,  when  Prunella  had 
finished  stamping  and  tying  up  the  mail  to  go 
out  in  the  early  morning,  she  sat  down  on  a 
Sunshine  soap-box  and  leaned  her  head  back 
against  the  sacks  of  coffee  piled  on  top  of  the 
flour  barrels.  The  oil  lamp  in  the  bracket  over 
her  head  filled  her  little  corner  with  light,  but 
threw  long,  strange,  contorted  shadows  out  into 
the  store  beyond  the  mailboxes.  Over  in  the 
back  where  the  cheese  was  kept,  a  mouse  gnawed 
softly.  Now  and  then  a  motor-horn  went  round 
225 


THE  INVADERS 


the  corner  in  a  long  scream.  The  air  was  pun- 
gent with  a  mingling  of  coffee  and  cloves  and 
dried  apples. 

Prunella  gave  a  little  sigh  and  closed  her 
eyes.  Ever  since  the  concert  she  had  stolen 
quiet  moments  and  tried  to  recall  "  Yankee 
Doodle  "  and  the  "  Doxology."  That  morning 
in  church  she  had  not  sung  for  listening,  to 
store  away  the  tune  in  her  mind.  And  now,  as 
she  listened  for  the  melodies  that  would  not 
come,  she  could  hear  only  the  thud  of  her  own 
heart.  But  she  could  see  much  in  these  quiet 
times  that  was  almost  like  music  to  her.  She 
could  see  Stefan  at  the  piano  —  his  fine  brown 
hands  on  the  keys  —  his  eyes,  large  and  asking, 
looking  towards  her  —  the  medal  blazing  on 
the  lapel  of  the  shabby  coat.  And  now  she 
could  hear  Dr.  Britton's  words :  "  He  is  a  gen- 
ius. God  has  called  him  to  a  wonderful  career. 
.  .  .  He 's  a  wonderful  boy.  I  've  heard  his  his- 
tory from  the  priest.  He  has  noble  —  "  Noble  ? 
Noble  what  ?  she  wondered.  A  noble  heart  ?  A 
noble  genius  ?  But  what  a  little  fool  she  was  ! 
What  was  the  matter  with  her  anyhow !  She 
had  always  said  she  loathed  music  and  —  and 
foreigners.  And  now! 

She  got  up  abruptly  and  turned  out  the  lamp. 
226 


HOT-BEDS 


Then  in  the  flicker  of  the  dying  flame  she  felt 
her  way  to  the  door  and  stood  waiting  for  the 
light  to  snuff  out.  It  was  slow  dying,  shooting 
long  gleams  up  into  the  cobwebbed  ceiling 
among  the  suspended  rakes  and  hoes  and 
pitchforks  and  hams.  Then  blackness.  Prunella 
stepped  out  into  the  light  of  stars. 

It  was  not  until  she  had  locked  the  door  and 
got  used  to  the  darkness  that  she  saw  a  man 
sitting  on  the  steps  of  the  porch.  Then  she 
smelt  a  cigarette  and  saw  one  tossed  out  into 
the  road.  And  it  had  not  yet  occurred  to  her 
to  be  afraid  when  the  man  got  up  and  she  saw 
that  he  held  in  his  hand  long  sprays  of  flowers. 
In  the  dimness  she  could  not  see  what  flowers, 
but  they  looked  like  the  sprays  the  angels  had 
carried  once  in  the  Christmas  tableaus  at  school. 
With  the  other  hand  the  man  was  taking  off 
his  hat.  It  did  not  seem  at  all  strange  that  it 
should  be  Stefan. 

"  You  will  forgif  me  zat  I  dare  to  come  ?  " 
he  said.  "  I  bring  zese  for  you  —  because  zey 
seem  you.  And  to  spick  wiz  you  I  could  no 
longer  wait.  Zat  night?  I  mek  you  under- 
stan'  ?  "  And  he  put  the  flowers  into  the  hand 
that  went  out  to  him. 

Prunella  held  them  to  her  face  and  got  the 
227 


THE   INVADERS 


faint  sweetness  of  gladioli.     Her   heart   beat 
thick. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  Yes  !  "  she  whispered,  looking  up 
at  him  through  the  dimness. 

He  gave  a  little  laugh,  a  real  boy's  laugh. 
She  had  not  known  that  he  could  laugh. 

"  Oh,  an'  you  haf  understan'  ? "  he  cried 
softly.  "  An'  ze  music  ?  You  like  him  ?  " 

Prunella  drew  a  long  breath.  "  Oh,  I  loved 
it,"  she  said.  "  It  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever 
heard  music."  And  then  she  realized  herself  and 
turned  down  the  steps  towards  home. 

"  An'  if  I  go  little  way  wiz  you,  you  let  me?  " 
he  hesitated.  "I  come  in  and  ask  ze  aunt.  I 
not  mind." 

"  Oh,  no  !  Please.  Don't  ask  Aunt  Lou.  But 
you  —  you  may  come." 

And  they  went  along  under  Mrs.  Egerton's 
lilac  bushes,  that  would  lean  over  the  fence. 
Across  the  street  Mrs.  Clabby's  light  went  out. 
It  seemed  very  dark  except  for  the  many  stars. 

"After  ze  music,  it  is  ze  only  time  to  spick 
wiz  you,"  he  was  going  on  rapidly,  "in  ze 
night  —  wiz  stars  V  ze  sweetness.  An'  to  tell 
you  zat  it  is  you  zat  meks  ze  music  to  me.  Al- 
ways, in  my  home  I  haf  play,  but  it  is  you  — 
you  —  ze  music." 

228 


HOT-BEDS 


Prunella  gave  a  little  gasp.  It  was  just  like 
the  time  Aunt  Lou  had  had  that  little  bottle  o£ 
champagne  in  the  basket  of  fruit  from  the 
boarders. 

"Oh,  no!  I'm  not  like  that,"  she  said.  "I'm 
not  a  bit  like  that.  If  you  could  just  see  me 
•when  I  'm  peeling  potatoes  or  —  or  weeding  the 
garden,  or  cleaning  the  house.  Then  you  —  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  always  I  would  !  Of  whateferyou 
do  I  mek  ze  music  —  ze  music  of  ze  home,  of 
your  hands  —  all  is  to  me  music,  spif ki,  spifki !  " 

Prunella  laid  her  gladioli  against  her  hot 
cheek.  They  were  almost  at  the  gate.  The 
house  was  dark  except  for  Miss  Hollins's  candle. 

"  An'  if  I  go  way  —  to  my  home  land,  to 
study,  I  haf  then  no  time  to  spick  wiz  you.  Faz- 
zer  Zujewski  he  say  God  gif  me  music,  but  I 
say  God  gif  it  you  to  gif  me.  An'  I  haf  much  to 
tell  of  my  f azzer  an'  my  muzzer.  I  haf  —  " 

Miss  Hollins  reached  out  and  closed  the 
shutters. 

"  Ssh !  "  Prunella  whispered.  "  We  're  wak- 
ing people.  Good-night ! " 

"  But  again  may  I  see  you  ? "  he  went  on 
quickly.  "  I  come  an'  tell  all  to  ze  aunt.  An* 
if  I  go  way —  " 

"  Oh  yes !  Yes !  "  she  murmured  into  the 
229 


THE   INVADERS 


gladioli,  opening  the  gate.  He  caught  her 
flower-filled  hand,  and,  bending  over  it  with 
the  reverence  of  a  worshiper,  kissed  it  swiftly. 

"  God  wiz  you  !  "  he  whispered. 

But  she  had  already  run  from  him  up  the 
path  into  the  shadow  of  the  clematis.  As  she 
turned  the  knob,  Solomon  Clabby  sprang  out 
of  the  hammock  and  whisked  past  her  down 
the  steps.  Her  face  burned  with  a  sense  of 
guilt. 

Miss  Hollins  sat  up  in  bed  with  a  jump.  In 
the  doorway  appeared  Prunella,  very  large-eyed 
and  rosy,  holding  the  long  sprays  of  pale  pink 
gladioli. 

"  Why,  Prunella  Loomis  !  What  under  the 
canopy  is  the  matter?  Shut  the  door,  for 
heaven's  sake.  You  look  like  a  —  a  —  " 

"  I  know  I  do  !  I  know  I  do,  Aunt  Lou !  You 
need  n't  tell  me  so  !  "  she  whispered  breathlessly, 
dropping  on  her  knees  at  the  side  of  the  bed. 
"  But  it 's  —  it 's  Stefan  —  after  all." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

CEBULA 

MRS.  WIENIASKI  trudged  heavily  along  be- 
tween the  windrows  in  the  wilted  onion  fields. 
Her  heavy,  rundown  shoes,  tied  together  by  the 
strings,  hung  over  her  shoulder,  and  she  planted 
her  large,  knobby  feet  flatly  in  the  dust  among 
the  cool,  limp  leaves  and  the  great  white  and 
bronze  onions.  She  was  bound  for  home,  ahead 
of  her  there  in  the  trees  against  the  wild  red 
afterglow,  with  the  swallows  darting  black 
around  the  smokeless  old  chimneys.  To  the 
right  and  left,  other  weeders  were  diminishing 
in  the  evening  distance,  some  towards  the  vil- 
lage back  among  the  trees,  others  northward 
towards  the  hills,  against  which  the  stones  in 
the  Welling  burial  lot  still  showed  rosily  white 
from  the  sunset. 

As  Mrs.  Wieniaski  trudged,  her  thoughts 
went  heavily.  She  was  very  tired,  and,  although 
her  dinner-pail  swung  empty  from  her  arm, 
faint  and  hungry.  The  hunks  of  bread  and 
Leberwurst  and  the  cold  coffee  that  had  made 
231 


THE   INVADERS 


the  pail  of  some  weight  in  the  morning,  had 
been  more  than  shared  with  Wieniaski  himself, 
and  noon  came  early  to  those  who  hegan  the 
day  before  the  sun.  But  besides  weariness  and 
hunger,  there  was  another  burden  upon  Mrs. 
Wieniaski's  spirit.  It  was  an  old,  old  thought 
that  the  abundant  harvest  always  brought  to 
her. 

"  All  this  to  sell  and  no  children  to  feed ! 
All  this  to  sell  and  no  children  to  feed  !  "  she 
was  muttering  to  herself  in  her  ugly,  untutored 
Polish. 

All  day  she  had  been  raking  the  onions 
among  the  Krakoskis  and  the  Brogodzds  with 
their  big  brood  of  children.  The  plump,  laugh- 
ing little  creatures  had  played  around  her  rake, 
and,  when  she  rested,  little  Sofia  had  climbed 
into  her  lap  and  gone  to  sleep.  Again  and 
again  she  had  seen  the  mothers  lift  the  kicking, 
crowing  babies  out  of  the  baby  carriages  and 
suckle  them,  squatting  in  the  meagre  shade  of 
a  cotton  umbrella  or  in  the  glare  of  the  sun. 
And  she  had  seen  the  smile  on  the  face  of  a 
grandmother  as  she  drew  herself  stiffly  up  from 
her  raking  and  said,  "  There  will  be  much 
money  —  much  money  for  the  little  ones." 

"  All  this  to  sell  and  no  children  to  feed ! " 
232 


CEBULA 

For  what,  then,  had  they  come  to  this  big,  new 
country,  away  from  the  old  town  on  the  Vis- 
tula, with  the  cheerful  red  roofs  around  the 
little  church  with  the  yellow  dome,  and  the 
streets  friendly  with  greetings  ?  That  is  what 
again  and  again  she  was  asking  Wieniaski,  and 
until  a  few  months  before,  always  he  had  said, 
"  For  Stefan.  Stefan  is  Alexia's  boy  and  his 
father  was  a  prince.  But  he  must  work  like  the 
rest  of  us.  He  must  make  money.  By  gosh,  I 
give  him  the  chance  and  he  make  the  money." 
And  then,  in  a  little  while,  he  said, "  By  gosh  ! 
He  is  a  big  fool,  that  boy,  to  make  music  when 
he  can  make  money."  And  then,  ever  since  the 
concert,  and  since  Father  Zujewski  had  come 
all  the  way  over  the  fields  in  the  hot  sunshine 
to  talk  to  them  about  Stefan  —  ever  since,  Wie- 
niaski had  said,  "The  devil!  He  is  Alexia's 
boy  and  his  father  was  a  prince.  That  is  why. 
But  he  is  the  big  fool,  all  the  same.  By  gosh ! 
I  will  give  him  the  money  to  go.  And  then  if 
he  does  well,  very  good.  And  then  if  he  does 
not  do  well  —  the  devil !  he  need  not  come 
back.  I  will  feed  no  one  that  is  too  proud."  And 
then  she  had  said,  "  But,  Wieniaski,  it  is  a  gift 
from  God  that  he  has.  Father  Zujewski  has  said 
so.  And  I  myself,  that  night  in  the  concert,  he 
233 


THE   INVADERS 


made  me  to  be  at  home  again  and  to  be  young. 
And  that  is  better  than  onions." 

So  she  was  remembering  and  pondering  as  she 
went  through  the  ploughed-up  garden,  through 
the  sagging  garden  gate  under  the  bridal  arch 
of  fading  clematis,  into  the  growing  dusk  under 
the  trees  around  thehouse.  As  if  to  catch  up  her 
thought,  a  wave  of  melancholy  music  flowed  out 
to  her  as  the  wind  came  her  way.  Stefan  was 
playing.  He  had  forgotten  to  start  her  kitchen 
fire  to  fry  the  meat  and  the  onions  for  supper. 

She  did  not  turn  in  at  the  kitchen  door.  In- 
stead, she  went  softly  around  the  house  to  the 
parlor  windows  and  stood  close  in  the  syringa 
bushes,  peeping  in. 

Through  the  threadbare  lace  curtains  she 
could  see  Stefan  at  the  piano,  in  the  last  radi- 
ance that  fell  through  the  western  windows. 
It  was  the  G  Minor  Nocturne  that  he  was  play- 
ing, but  to  Mrs.  Wieniaski  it  was  only  music 
—  music  that  transformed  the  idle,  good-for- 
nothing  Stefan  into  an  angel  as  he  sat  there  in 
the  great  bare  old  parlor,  with  a  spray  of  gla- 
diolus on  the  piano,  and  made  her  forget  her 
heavy,  tired  feet  and  her  empty  heart.  And  to 
see  him  play !  That  was  the  music  as  well  as 
what  he  played. 

234 


CEBULA 

"  I  will  go  make  the  kitchen  fire,"  she  said  to 
herself.  "  He  must  not  make  fires."  And  then, 
as  she  picked  up  her  kindling  in  the  woodshed, 
her  thought  went  on  beyond  her.  "  And  yet  it 
is  a  fire  that  he  makes  when  he  plays  !  He  makes 
the  heart  warm  to  be  young  again,  to  love,  to 
hate,  to  not  feel  the  emptiness.  And  now  he 
will  go.  And  he  will  do  well.  He  will  not  come 
back." 

When  Wieniaski  came  into  the  kitchen  with 
the  boarders,  Tony  Somaski  and  Adam  Os- 
troski  and  Leo  Polenski,  she  looked  up  from 
the  onions  she  was  peeling  and  wiped  her  eyes 
with  her  sleeve. 

"  You  wait.  I  was  sick,"  she  said.  "  Stefan 
has  lighted  the  fire  long  ago  and  I  have  not 
come.  I  hurry." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

FURROWS 

OLIVIA  stopped  again  to  rest  and  straighten 
up  her  shoulders.  Sowing  turnip  seed  was  not 
just  like  gymnasium  work  and  indeed  a  good 
deal  better,  as  she  had  assured  her  mother  so 
confidently  it  was.  The  rows  would  not  keep 
even,  and  the  soil,  thoroughly  as  Dinny  and 
Jerry  had  ploughed  and  harrowed  it  with  the 
horses  they  had  rented  so  reasonably  for  her, 
was  cloddy.  But  of  course  the  old  fields  were 
in  a  sad  state.  Next  year  things  would  be  very 
different.  Dinny  and  Jerry  had  said,  that  very 
morning,  that  they  had  "  niver  sane  the  loikes 
o'  the  hate  f'r  the  toime  o'  year.  It  was  fit  t' 
kill  y'."  And,  then,  if  her  shoes  just  would  n't 
fill  with  soil  and  little  pebbles  ! 

Ben,  however,  was  getting  great  enjoyment 
out  of  the  turnip  seeding.  There  were  many 
husky  young  rabbits  in  the  weeds  along  the 
stone  wall,  and  a  woodchuck  hole  down  by  the 
brook.  So  he  frisked  and  ran  and  barked,  and 
came  back  to  encourage  and  smile  a  broad  dog 
smile,  and  ran  off  on  a  new  scent,  and  bur- 
236 


FURROWS 


rowed  in  the  bushes  until  only  the  quivering 
red  plume  of  his  tail  betrayed  his  whereabouts. 
Presently  the  sun  went  behind  a  cloud  and 
a  little  wind  fanned  the  western  side  of  Olivia's 
hot  face.  Beyond  the  wall  that  the  seeder  was 
approaching,  the  aspens  and  birches  and  alders 
faced  the  east  whitely.  The  west  had  grown  a 
thund  erous  dark  violet.  Olivia  looked  up  when  she 
had  reached  the  very  end  of  the  row,  in  a  patch 
of  low  bittersweet,  which  was  already  yellowing 
on  the  wall.  Again  she  rested,  wiping  her  face 
and  stretching  her  slender  hands  out  of  their 
cramp.  To  wear  gloves  as  her  mother  had 
pleaded,  she  had  scorned.  Who  had  ever  heard 
of  a  successful  farmer  that  wore  gloves  !  Then 
she  climbed  on  the  wall  and  sat  with  her  hands 
clasped  around  her  knees  in  the  dark-blue 
denim  short  skirt.  On  the  tip  of  the  hills  to  the 
north  the  sun  was  beginning  to  shine  again. 
Now  the  light  was  coming  down  the  hills  —  now 
it  was  wanly  over  the  village  so  white  against 
the  purple  of  the  storm.  And  the  men  and 
women  in  the  tobacco  fields  beyond  the  turnip 
field  were  still  at  work.  In  one  field  waved 
the  tall,  bare  stalks  of  the  stripped  tent-tobacco 
topped  with  pink  blooms.  A  long  wain  piled 
with  the  stripped  leaves,  and  driven  by  a  vividly 
237 


THE   INVADERS 


red-shirted  man,  was  just  turning  out  of  the 
tent-tobacco  field  on  its  way  to  the  great  brown 
barn  in  the  other  field.  In  that  field  the  whole 
stalk  was  to  be  cut,  and  beyond  the  slow  wagon, 
there  were  more  vivid  figures  hewing  it  down 
and  straddling  it  on  the  racks  to  be  hung  in 
the  barn.  In  the  strange  white  sunlight,  with 
that  wild  purplish  sky  off  to  the  west,  the  scene 
had  all  the  silence  and  remoteness  of  a  picture. 
In  the  long  perspective  the  movement  counted 
for  nothing.  Then  it  darkened  and  the  picture 
faded. 

"  If  Dacre  would  only  paint  things  like  that 

—  right  here  in  the  valley  !  "  she  said  to  her- 
self, almost  aloud.  "  It 's  great.  And   not  al- 
ways be  trying  to  paint  just  women  !  If  he  only 
would  ! "  And  then  she  fell  to  thinking  that 
perhaps  he  would  when  he  came  home,  after 
the  year  or  two  of  study  —  that  he  would  paint 
her  tobacco  fields  —  that  they  would  be  his 
tobacco  fields  —  that  she  should  be   his,  and 
so,  naturally,  her  tobacco  fields  would  be  his 

—  and  that,  perhaps,  sometime,  they  could  buy 
Dacre's  own  old  fields  from  the  Wieniaskis,  and 
then  — 

A  blinding  white  flash  zigzagged  between 
her  and  the  tobacco.  The  west  grumbled.  Ben 
238 


FURROWS 


came  in  long  leaps  over  the  ploughing.  She 
sprang  down  from  the  wall.  The  people  in  the 
tobacco  fields  were  running  to  the  farmhouse 
on  the  far  edge  of  the  fields,  for  them  as  near  as 
the  barn.  A  cool  big  drop  splashed  her  cheek. 
She  gathered  up  her  bag  of  seed  and  picked  up 
her  seeder.  For  her  it  was  the  barn  for  shelter ! 

"  Come,  Ben  ! "  she  called  breathlessly,  run- 
ning into  another  lurid  flash.  And  then  she  sped 
on  over  the  turnip  rows  into  the  gray  sheet  of 
rain  that  met  her  in  the  tobacco  field,  then  on 
over  the  stubble  of  the  newly  cut  plants  into 
the  dusky  green  depths  of  the  barn. 

For  a  moment  its  vastness  and  duskiness 
startled  her.  She  and  panting  Ben  seemed  very 
small  in  the  big  doorway  facing  the  dim  heights 
hung  with  the  rows  of  close-packed  tobacco. 
Row  behind  row  of  velvety  greenness  up  into 
untold  depths  of  shadow ;  and  row  behind  row 
lower  down  until  it  would  have  brushed  her  up- 
lifted hand  had  she  dared  into  it. 

But  she  did  not  venture  into  it.  Instead,  she 
seated  herself  on  a  nailkeg  close  by  the  door, 
and  got  her  breath,  and  looked  out  at  the  gray 
sheet  of  rain,  and  patted  Ben  into  reassurance. 
Then  she  leaned  over  and  drew  off  one  of  her 
brown  half  shoes  and  contemplated  its  interior. 
239 


A  cloud  of  dust  and  small  gravel  fell  out  when 
she  turned  it  upside  down  and  shook  it.  Then, 
confident  in  her  isolation,  she  drew  off  her 
brown  stocking  and  shook  it  vigorously,  too. 
Ben,  with  amiable  hanging  tongue,  looked  as- 
kance at  the  white  foot.  Then  he  pricked  his 
ears  together  and  looked  out  at  the  rain.  But 
his  shrill  bark  was  too  late.  Into  the  doorway, 
round  the  corner  of  the  barn,  rushed  another 
storm-driven  human  being.  With  him  came  a 
blinding  flash  and  a  quick  thunderclap. 

" Faith,  it's  not  a  minute  too  late  I  am  !  "  he 
cried.  Then  he  turned  and  saw  Olivia. 

She  had  gasped,  risen  to  escape,  given  a  lit- 
tle cry,  and  then  sat  down  quickly  on  the 
ground,  covering  her  bare  foot  with  her  skirt. 
Her  shoe  had  bounded  almost  to  Joyce's  feet. 
Her  stocking  she  clutched  in  her  hand.  She 
was  as  furiously  red  as  he  was  white. 

In  another  wild  sweep  of  the  rain  and  a 
crackling,  splitting  thunderclap,  their  voices, 
whatever  they  were  saying  to  each  other,  were 
quite  lost.  Then  she  realized  that  he  was  turn- 
ing to  go.  "  Oh,  please  !  Don't  go !  You  '11  be 
killed,"  she  found  herself  calling  very  loud  over 
the  storm.  "  It  would  be  reckless  to  go." 

He  was  already  out  under  the  dripping  of 
240 


FURROWS 


the  eaves.  Ben  had  followed  and  stood  sniffing 
his  knickerbockers. 

"  Oh,  I  beg  a  thousand  pardons  of  y',"  he 
was  saying.  "  Never  once  was  I  thinking  to 
find  y'  here.  It  was  the  very  last  place  in  which 
I  'd  be  expecting  to  find  y' !  "  And  he  started 
again  out  into  the  rain. 

"  Oh,  please !  Please !  "  she  cried.  "  I  'm  not 
silly.  Please  stay  until  it 's  safe.  And  of  course 
you  did  not  expect  to  find  me  here."  And  then 
she  began  to  laugh  so  merrily  that  to  Joyce, 
standing  there  gingerly  on  the  ragged  edge 
of  shelter,  with  his  pounding  heart,  she  seemed 
on  the  point  of  crying.  "  Of  course  you  did  not 
dream  of  finding  me  here,"  she  repeated  be- 
tween laughs.  "But  you  see — you  see,  I've 
been  planting  turnips." 

"I  see,"  he  said,  almost  crossly.  "Doing 
work  that  is  too  hard  for  y'  entirely.  It 's  cruel 
for  y'  to  work  like  that." 

She  stopped  laughing.  Somehow  it  gave  her 
a  little  pang  to  see  him  standing  there  against 
the  rain.  And  he  looked  immensely  well  in 
his  brown  knickerbockers,  with  his  clinging 
white  shirt  turned  in  around  his  brown  throat, 
and  his  wide  Panama  from  which  little  trickles 
descended  into  his  neck. 
241 


THE   INVADERS 


"  Suppose,"  she  said,  very  calmly,  "  you  just 
wait  until  I  put  on  my  shoe  and  stocking,  and 
then  you  come  quite  inside  — unless,  that  is,  you 
—  you  prefer  the  rain."  Her  voice  trembled  a 
little  between  a  laugh  and  a  sob.  "  You  see, 
Ben  and  I  had  just  come,  and  I  —  I  was  getting 
the  turnip  field  out  of  my  shoes  and  stockings." 

She  saw,  as  she  tugged  at  her  stocking,  a 
warm  flush  creeping  up  into  the  close-cut  dark 
hair  behind  his  ears.  Why  —  why  under  heaven 
was  she  so  sorry  for  him ! 

"  Oh,  no  ! "  he  said,  with  a  little  laugh.  "  I  'm 
not  preferring  the  rain.  I  'm  as  wet  as  a  drowned 
rat.  It  was  from  the  tobacco  fields  beyond  there 
I  was  coming.  I  've  been  helping  the  lads  with 
the  hauling." 

"  Have  you  —  have  you  a  —  a  button  hook  in 
your  pocket  ? "  she  panted.  "  This  shoe  just 
won't  button.  I  'm  awfully  sorry  to  trouble  you, 
but  in  the  mud,  you  see,  going  home,  it  would 
never  in  the  world  stay  on.  It 's  raining  less, 
is  n't  it?" 

He  was  fumbling  in  his  pockets,  the  hand 
with  the  strange  silver  ring  on  it  in  the  pocket 
towards  her.  He  took  his  hands  out  empty. 

"Not  the  sign  of  a  one  have  I,"  he  said. 
"  But  if  you  would  let  me  —  my  fingers  —  It 's 
242 


FUKROWS 


often  and  often  I  've  buttoned  Bride's  boots 
when  she 's  been  after  wading  in  the  brook." 

Her  heart  gave  a  wild  beat.  Her  mother's 
face  flashed  across  the  gray  wall  of  rain.  She 
remembered  Dacre's  fingers  deft  over  her  shoe 
buttons  in  the  wading  days  of  the  long  ago. 

"  If  you  please,"  she  said  gayly.  "  And  then 
there 's  another  nailkeg.  And  perhaps  you  will 
tell  me  one  of  your  sister's  stories." 

He  did  not  turn  at  once  as  she  had  expected 
him  to  do.  Instead,  it  seemed  to  her  that  he 
drew  himself  up  a  little  more  proudly  as  he 
stood  looking  quite  away  from  her  out  into  the 
storm. 

"I  thank  you,"  he  said  tensely,  so  low  that 
she  had  to  lean  forward  to  catch  his  words 
above  the  wash  of  the  rain.  "  But  it  is  very 
slow  I  would  be  in  turning  t'  y',  if  after  I  turn 
y'd  be  as —  as  y'  have  been  to  me.  It's  far  — 
far  better  for  me  to  be  looking  out  at  the  rain 
than  to  see  —  to  see  the  —  curl  on  the  lips  of  y'." 

In  the  silence  Ben  stretched  himself  in  the 
doorway  with  a  sleepy  whine.  Outside,  the  wind 
was  changing,  driving  the  rain  into  the  barn 
door. 

"  Please,  please  don't  look  at  the  rain  any 
longer,"  she  said  gently.  "  And  if  you  would 
243 


THE   INVADERS 


please  button  my  shoe.  See !  Now  the  wind  has 
changed  for  good  ! " 

" For  good?"  he  repeated.  And  then  with  a 
swift  look  at  her  that  made  her  look  as  quickly 
away  with  a  little  laugh,  he  knelt,  and  holding 
the  brown  shoe  lightly  in  the  hand  that  wore 
the  strange  silver  ring,  he  fastened  the  stubborn 
buttons. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  For  good,"  she  answered  lightly. 
"Soon  we  can  go  home.  Thank  you  so  much  ! 
A  farmer  should  carry  a  bag  full  of  all  sorts  of 
things  for  emergencies." 

"  And  Dinny  and  Jerry  are  working  well  for 
y'?"  he  asked,  quite  prosaically,  as  he  seated 
himself  on  the  other  nailkeg. 

"  Oh,  yes !  They  are  doing  wonders.  You 
see,  they  ploughed  and  harrowed  the  turnip 
field  for  me  so  that  I  could  plant  it  before  school 
begins.  And  now,  to-day,  they  are  in  the  rye 
fields.  And  then  the  planting  I  can't  do,  they  '11 
have  to  finish  for  me." 

"And  school  begins  when?"  he  asked.  It 
was  easy  to  ask  questions  when  he  was  thinking 
of  the  wondrous  change  in  the  look  of  her  as 
she  met  his  eyes  so  frankly  and  kindly,  and 
laughed  so  gayly,  and  sat  there  so  simply  before 
him  in  her  coarse  blue  skirt  and  blue  linen  waist, 
244 


FURROWS 


turned  in,  like  his  shirt,  at  the  neck.  "And  you 
are  glad  to  begin  ?  "  Even  Aileen  herself  could 
be  no  more  gracious  and  smiling. 

"  It  begins  this  very  next  Monday,"  she  was 
answering  him.  "I'm  half  scared,  but  then  I 
remember  By  Smith  and  Apollonia ! "  And 
again  she  laughed,  and  snapped  her  finger  and 
lured  Ben  to  her  side  for  a  little  stroking.  "And 
now,  will  you  not  tell  me  one  of  your  sister's 
stories  ?  It  seems  to  me  it  would  be  most  ro- 
mantic to  sit  here  in  this  strange  green  gloom, 
with  the  rain  so  gray  and  wild,  and  hear  one  of 
those  stories.  If  you  would!  And  see!  It's 
clearing  a  bit.  I  can  see  Sugarloaf  there  to  the 
west." 

"  Oh,  I  'm  no  story-teller  like  Bride,"  he 
protested.  "  And  then  they  break  the  very  heart 
of  y',  the  Irish  stories.  Somehow  always  the 
Irish  do  be  having  sad  endings  to  their  stories, 
the  way  it 's  too  sad  to  tell  them.  And  the  most 
beautiful  of  all  is  the  saddest." 

"  Oh,  do,  please !  I  rather  like  to  hear  stories 
that  are  sad,  because  then  I  can  say  to  myself 
that  it's  not  true.  And  in  one's  own  story — " 
She  stopped.  What  she  was  saying  began  to 
sound  sentimental. 

"In  one's  own  story  one  cannot  always  say 
245 


THE   INVADERS 


that  the  sorrow  is  not  true,"  he  finished  quite 
simply.  "  Faith,  that 's  true  enough,  what  you 
say.  But  then,  sometimes,  the  very  stories  that 
we  say  are  not  true  are  afterwards  our  own 
stories.  It 's  what  we  never  can  tell  —  what  will 
be  our  own  stories." 

She  leaned  forward  on  the  nailkeg,  stroking 
Ben's  long  red  ear.  The  rain  was  lessening,  and 
a  faint  rose  flushed  the  gray.  It  was  the  sunset 
behind  the  storm. 

"  But  the  most  beautiful  story,  which  is  so 
sad !  "  she  begged.  "Now  I'm  dying  to  hear  it. 
And  perhaps  I  may  sometime  find  that  it  is  my 
story.  I  should  like  to  have  a  life  like  a  folk- 
story." 

"  Perhaps,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  quite  di- 
rectly. "  I  pray  not.  It  is  the  story  of  Deirdre. 
She,  too,  was  fair  and  comely  and  bright-haired, 
and  heroes  fought  for  her  —  but  —  It  is  what 
Lady  Gregory  says  in  her  tales,  far  better  than 
I  can  say  it  — '  In  your  fate,  0  beautiful  child, 
are  wounds,  and  ill-doings  and  shedding  of 
blood.  Many  will  be  jealous  of  your  face,  0 
flame  of  beauty  ! ' ' 

She  sprang  up  with  a  laugh.  "  Oh,  dear,  no ! 
That  would  not  be  endurable.  But  I  do  want 
to  hear  the  story.  And  sometime  —  sometime 
246 


FURROWS 


will  you  tell  it  to  me?  There 's  the  sun  now  — 
or  the  sunset." 

"  I  will,"  he  said.  "  The  drops  are  like  gold, 
are  they  not  ?  It  would  be  rather  good  fun  to 
walk  through  them  in  the  freshness." 

Out  of  the  gray  the  hills  were  shimmering 
clear  against  the  clean  blue  sky.  A  meadow- 
lark's  note  dropped  down  out  of  the  afterglow. 
The  pools  in  the  fields  shone  in  gold  and  rose. 

"  Oh,  see  !  See  !  "  Olivia  cried,  looking  back 
from  the  threshold  into  the  duskiness. 

And  among  the  green  hangings  of  tobacco 
fell  long  shafts  of  the  sunset,  touching  up  the 
brown  of  rafter  and  beam  and  shingle. 

"  It  is  splendid  enough  for  Deirdre,"  Joyce 
said  as  he  picked  up  the  turnip  seed  and  the 
seeder.  And  then  they  went  out  over  the  wet 
fields,  over  the  swollen  brook  on  the  narrow  log 
bridge,  through  the  pasture  with  the  shine  of 
the  west  all  over  the  dripping  fern  and  blue- 
berry, and  into  the  Ladd  stableyard,  through 
the  rotten  old  gate  that  was  propped  shut  with 
a  stone.  And  all  the  way  they  talked  of  tobacco 
cutting,  and  the  cost  of  a  tobacco  barn,  and  the 
present  price  of  onions,  and  the  economy  of 
keeping  cows  and  pigs  as  a  means  of  enriching 
the  soil,  and  the  proportion  of  K20  the  river 
247 


THE   INVADERS 


fields  required,  and  the  correctness  of  first  im- 
pressions, and  the  force  of  circumstances.  And 
by  that  time  they  had  reached  the  gate  into  the 
back  yard,  and  there  was  Mrs.  Ladd  coming 
down  the  path  towards  them.  She  stopped  quite 
still  when  she  saw  them  and  made  no  response 
to  Olivia's  little  wave  of  the  hand. 

"  Oh,  Mamma  !  Were  you  frightened  ?  "  she 
called.  "  I  'm  absolutely  all  right,  but  covered 
with  mud.  It  was  a  glorious  storm,  was  n't  it ! " 
It  seemed  to  her  that  never  had  she  seen  her 
mother  so  white  and  slender  and  unapproach- 
able. And  her  eyes  were  so  bright  and  cold. 

"  This,  Mamma,  is  Mr.  Patrick  Joyce,"  she 
went  on  recklessly.  "  He  has  quite  saved  my  life, 
you  see,  —  a  sort  of  knight  to  the  rescue, 
Mamma !  "  And  she  laughed  a  little,  and  looked 
at  the  knight. 

And  he  was  not  unknightly  as  he  bared  his 
head  and  bowed  very  low  to  the  cold,  proud 
lady  who  had  no  hand  to  offer  him  in  greeting. 
Even  the  turnip  seed  and  the  seeder  in  his  left 
hand  did  not  detract  from  his  knightliness. 

"  I  thank  Mr.  Joyce,  then,  for  his  knightly 
services    to  —  to    my  distressingly  democratic 
daughter,"  she  said  with  the  smallest  of  smiles. 
"  He  has  been  very  kind." 
248 


FURKOWS 


He  put  down  the  turnip  seed  and  the  seeder. 
"  If  Miss  Ladd  had  needed  my  good  sword,  it 
would  have  been  at  her  service,"  he  said  gravely 
and  slowly.  It  rejoiced  Olivia  that  he  gave  no 
smallest  trace  of  the  brogue. 

"  But  sword  or  seeder,  the  service  is  the  same," 
she  called  lightly  after  him  as  he  turned  away. 

"  Now,  do  come  and  get  dry  clothes,  Olivia. 
And  there 's  a  pot  of  tea  and  a  letter  there  for 
you.  Timothy  went  for  the  mail  before  the 
storm." 


CHAPTER  XX 

LB   BEAU   YELLING 

JUST  about  the  time  that  Olivia  and  Patrick 
were  tramping  through  muddy  tobacco  fields  in 
the  afterglow,  it  was  midnight  in  Paris,  and 
Dacre  was  writing  a  letter.  Over  the  very  same 
table  on  which  Grazia  served  the  omelets  after 
the  long  poses,  he  was  leaning,  one  hand  in  his 
tawny  hair,  which  he  wore  a  little  longer  since 
becoming  a  citizen  of  the  Quartier,  the  other 
driving  a  villainous,  rusty  pen  over  big  thin  blue 
sheets.  The  bells  of  Saint-Sulpice  had  just  struck 
twelve.  From  the  BouT  Miche,  five  stories  be- 
low, a  scrap  of  "  Funiculi  Funicula  "  floated  up 
and  in  through  the  wallflowers  and  the  mignon- 
ette and  the  little  cage  where  the  fauvette  was 
sound  asleep  dreaming  of  a  cherry  tree.  Orloff 
was  out,  and  would  be  till  morning,  at  the  ball 
of  Le  Singe  Vert  over  in  Montmartre.  As  yet, 
the  balls  were  too  French  for  Dacre,  with  twelve 
words  for  his  vocabulary.  Orloff  said  not  to 
mind  —  that  words  were  n't  needed  when  a 
man  had  a  faultless  nose  and  the  women  called 
him  "le  beau  Veiling."  And  up  to  a  certain 
250 


LE   BEAU  YELLING 


point  le  beau  Veiling  had  found  bis  looks 
sufficient. 

But  in  tbe  matter  of  letters  to  a  woman  in  a 
little  town  of  old  elms  and  gray  old  bouses  in 
a  great  land  across  the  sea,  looks  were  not  all- 
sufficient.  He  had,  to  be  sure,  already  sent  her 
a  little  snapshot  of  himself  in  the  studio  under 
the  big  skylight.  Orloff  had  taken  it  and  given 
him  two.  One  of  them  Grazia  wore  in  a  gold 
locket  on  her  garter  of  cherry  silk.  The  other 
had  gone  to  Olivia,  and  was  kept  in  a  tiny  silver 
frame  hidden  behind  "  Bulletin  No.  68,  Massa- 
chusetts Agricultural  Experiment  Station.  In- 
spection of  Commercial  Fertilizers."  That  was 
an  absolutely  safe  place.  Mrs.  Ladd  could  have 
no  possible  need  to  consult  the  Bulletin. 

To-night,  in  the  quiet  studio,  with  only  a 
sleeping  fauvette  for  company,  fancy  could  take 
easy  flight,  and  Dacre  was  writing  as  easily  as 
he  would  have  talked  had  he  been  sitting  with 
Olivia  in  the  old  war-room  at  home. 

"  My  Darling,"  he  had  begun  in  the  unformed, 
childish  hand  that  he  tried  to  make  manly  by 
scratching  and  scrawling  into  a  fine  illegibility, 
"  I  wonder  if  you  are  thinking  of  me  and  long- 
ing for  me  as  I  am  for  you  to-night.  I  am  all 
251 


THE  INVADERS 


alone  in  the  studio,  and  somehow  I  can  see  you 
so  vividly.  You  are  perhaps  sitting  on  the  old 
stone  bench  in  the  clematis  arbor.  Do  you  re- 
member your  sixteenth  birthday,  in  the  clematis 
arbor?  It  was  the  first  time  I  kissed  you  —  and 
the  last  time  until  that  day  on  the  stile  by  the 
wall,  that  day  Grandfather  died.  And  so  I  am 
thinking  of  you  now  in  the  arbor  while  I  sit  up 
here  alone. 

"  Orloff  is  a  real  sport.  He  takes  in  every- 
thing. To-night  he 's  off  at  a  ball  in  Montmartre, 
given  by  a  club  of  Russian  artists  that  call  them- 
selves '  Le  Singe  Vert.'  I  've  been  told  by  some 
fellows  around  at  La  Rose's,  that  his  father  is  a 
Russian  prince  and  his  mother  a  Spanish  dancer. 
He 's  painting  for  the  fun  of  it,  and  he  knows 
Paris,  every  inch  of  it.  He 's  a  good  fellow  to 
be  with  because  you  can't  get  taken  in  if  he 's 
around,  and  he's  ten  years  older  than  I — calls 
me '  Sonny '  and  says  the  women  call  me,  le  beau 
Veiling. 

"You  ask  me  where  we  take  our  meals.  Oh, 
anywhere.  There  are  jolly  places  all  along  the 
Boul'  Miche,  and  the  Boulevard  Mont  Parnasse, 
and  in  every  quaint  little  side  street  where  you  'd 
least  expect  to  find  them.  And  then,  when  there 
are  any  models  around,  they  are  only  too  will- 
252 


LE   BEAU   YELLING 


ing  to  cook  you  an  elegant  mess  of  something 
or  other  with  a  queer  French  name  and  make 
you  a  salad  fit  for  the  gods.  I  told  you  about 
Grazia's  omelets.  And  then  we  go  to  the  Bois 
on  picnics  —  Sunday  picnics!  Don't  tell  your 
mother.  And  we  Ve  been  several  times  to  Meu- 
don  and  Saint-Cloud,  as  I  wrote  you.  The  models 
are  a  gay,  careless  lot  —  not  at  all  your  kind 
of  women.  But  Grazia  is  n't  like  the  others. 
She's  a  Sicilian,  as  you  know,  and  they  are  dif- 
ferent. Orloff  found  her  on  the  Pont  Alexandre 
one  night,  ready  to  jump  in.  She  wouldn't  tell 
why.  But  she  is  great  for  a  study  in  color.  I 
wrote  you  about  painting  her  in  the  window  eat- 
ing cherries.  I  got  tired  of  that.  It  was  too 
trivial.  Now  I  am  doing  her  more  seriously. 

"Am  I  really  getting  into  artist  life,  and  ac- 
complishing something?  That's  a  funny  ques- 
tion, dearest.  You  believe  in  me,  don't  you? 
Of  course,  I  'm  getting  into  it.  And  La  Rose 
is  very  encouraging  in  his  comments.  He  says 
I  have  it  in  me.  And  you  know  I  have.  Re- 
member,  too,  that  I  've  never  lived  until  now. 
If  I  just  had  n't  fooled  away  all  those  years  try- 
ing to  get  into  college !  La  Rose  says  an  artist 
and  a  musician  should  begin  in  the  cradle.  But 
now  I  'm  living !  All  the  years  before  this,  in 
253 


THE   INVADERS 


that  rundown,  shabby  old  house  in  the  onion 
fields,  are  like  a  nightmare  to  me,  except  in  the 
thought  of  you.  And  now  I  'm  going  to  live ! 
And  soon  I  '11  have  you  over  here  with  me,  and 
you  will  feel  as  I  do  about  the  old  places  and 
the  dull  life  in  an  American  village.  I  wish  you 
were  here  this  very  minute,  opposite  me  at  this 
rickety  little  table,  with  the  light  shining  on  that 
lovely  pale-gold  head  of  yours  and  those  dear 
frank  eyes  looking  into  mine.  You  wouldn't 
stay  opposite  me  long,  my  own  Sweetheart! 

"  And  now  I  want  you  to  do  something  for  me, 
dear.  See  old  Joyce  and  ask  him  if  something 
cannot  be  realized  on  all  that  life  insurance  of 
Grandfather's  that  never  came  to  anything. 
You  see,  he  paid  a  big  premium  for  years  and 
years,  and  then,  when  money  stopped  coming 
in,  he  stopped  paying.  I  see  now  that  Grand- 
father was  a  mighty  poor  manager.  Just  see  old 
Joyce  and  talk  it  over.  Do  it  for  me,  darling. 
I  'd  do  anything  for  you.  And  the  sooner  the 
better ! 

"  Good  -night  —  or  rather,  good-morning, 
dearest !  The  bells  on  Saint-Sulpice  have  struck 
one.  Remember  always  how  wholly  I  am  yours. 

"D.  W." 


254 


LE   BEAU   YELLING 


When  he  had  flourished  his  initials  into  a  fan- 
ciful scrawl  of  hearts  and  love-knots,  which  took 
him  a  matter  of  a  few  moments,  he  put  his 
letter  into  the  envelope  and  addressed  it  with  a 
fine  attempt  at  dignity  — "  Miss  Olivia  Ladd, 
Fernfield,  Mass.,  U.S.A.  Via  Cherbourg."  And 
"  Via  Cherbourg  "  meant  the  afternoon  of  this 
very  day,  if  it  were  to  catch  the  fast  steamer 
that  it  was  imperative  that  it  should  catch.  So 
he  ran  down  the  long  flights  of  stairs,  out  into 
the  half-deserted  street  that  smelt  so  fresh  from 
the  wet  asphalt.  The  cafe  on  the  corner,  where 
the  post-box  was,  still  showed  its  gay  lights. 
When  he  had  dropped  in  his  letter,  he  went 
over  to  one  of  the  little  tables  under  the  bloom- 
ing oleanders  and  whistled  to  the  waiter  dozing 
in  a  corner. 

"  Un  absinthe,"  he  called  with  a  finely  care- 
less pronunciation. 

And  by  the  time  the  little  gray  glass  had 
been  set  before  him,  a  girl  in  a  scrap  of  bright 
green  mousseline  with  her  hair  banded  like  a 
Madonna,  had  come  over  from  another  table 
and  rested  her  chin  in  her  palms  opposite  him. 
And  it  was  not  of  coloring  that  Dacre  was  think- 
ing as  he  looked  deep  into  her  shadowy  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  MEETING  OF  THE  WATERS 

HEN  this  pleasant  love-letter  was  in  the  fogs 
off  the  Banks,  under  a  very  seasick  and  dejected 
lot  of  millionaires  and  others,  Olivia  was  within 
two  days  of  beginning  her  professional  career 
and  Miss  Hollins  was  planning  her  coup  d'etat. 
While  partaking  of  Mr.  Michael  Joyce's  em- 
barrassing superabundance  of  vegetables,  Miss 
Hollins  had  been  experiencing,  not,  perhaps,  a 
change  of  heart,  but  certainly  a  readjustment 
of  that  organ.  People  with  hearts  never  need  a 
change.  God  knows,  a  real  heart  is  too  rare  and 
too  valuable  and  too  beautiful  for  the  owner 
ever  to  consider  a  change  of  it !  And,  truly, 
among  the  older  and  more  steadfast  generation 
of  New  Englanders  there  were,  and  are,  many 
of  these  articles  de  virtu.  It  is  only  that  a  con- 
tracted area  of  experience  has  left  them  unfairly 
adjusted,  and  limited  exercise  has  made  them 
stiff  and  unmanageable.  So  no  wonder  it 's  hard 
for  the  owners  to  turn  them  quickly  and  warmly 
and  understandingly  toward  these  quite  incon- 
ceivable and  outlandish  new  conditions,  and  to 
256 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE  WATERS 

believe  always  that  the  invaders  into  the  aristo- 
cratic old  strongholds  have  organisms  like  unto 
their  own ! 

It  was  then  only  a  quiet  readjustment  that 
led  Miss  Hollins  to  say  to  Prunella,  out  of  the 
fragrant  fumes  of  the  wild  grape  jelly  that  was 
purpling  the  sides  of  her  preserving  kettle,  "But 
why  should  n't  I  have  a  tea-party,  Prunella  ? 
Just  three  or  four  in  for  tea  out  of  the  Lowestof  t 
china.  It  is  a  shame  not  to  use  that  Lowestoft 
sometimes.  You  remember  it  is  to  be  yours, 
Prunella,  after  I  'm  gone  !  " 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Lou !  Don't  talk  about  such 
things.  I  don't  want  the  old  china."  Prunella 
was  washing  jelly  glasses  at  the  white  sink, 
splashing  in  white  soapsuds,  and  polishing  on 
whiter  towels  just  off  the  grass.  "  But  how  in 
the  world  could  you  stop  at  three  ?  " 

"  I  said  '  or  four,'  Prunella.  One  or  two 
more  wouldn't  count.  Now,  there  would  be 
Olivia,  of  course,  and  Mary  Ladd,  —  don't  be- 
lieve she  'd  come,  —  and  Dr.  Britton  and  Miss 
Kirk  and  —  and  Bride,  and  you  and  I  'd  make 
seven,  perhaps,  and  six  sure.  And  just  kisses 
and  sponge  cake  and  thin  bread  and  butter  and 
tea.  And  then,  if  there  should  be  —  be  an  extra 
at  the  last  —  " 

257 


THE   INVADEKS 


"  Not  Mrs.  Clabby,  Aunt  Lou !  You  know 
how  you  always  smuggle  Mrs.  Clabby  into  your 
kindnesses  because  she 's  a  widow.  I  don't  see 
why  in  the  world  the  Bible  is  always  talking 
about  doing  for  widows.  That  Mrs.  Tracy  that 
was  here  last  summer  was  n't  a  very  pathetic 
object.  And  the  way  she  laid  traps  for  Dr. 
Britton !  To  my  mind  that 's  where  the  Bible 
isn't  revelation.  And  now,  if  you  ask  —  " 

"  Dear  me,  Prunella,  I  've  never  given  Jane 
Clabby  a  thought.  And  it  is  n't  right  to  talk 
that  way  about  the  Bible.  Perhaps  there  's  a 
meaning  there  that  you  don't  understand.  Per- 
haps it 's  because  widows  have  been  so  used  to 
being  waited  on  that  it  comes  harder  to  stop. 
But  I  never  thought  of  Jane  Clabby.  And  would 
Thursday  do  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  so,"  Prunella  said,  not  enthusiast- 
ically. Somehow  since  the  night  of  the  gladioli 
she  had  been  even  less  willing  to  permit  herself 
any  playtime.  The  intervals  between  post-office 
and  kitchen  she  had  given  to  raking  the  grass 
vigorously  and  cleaning  up  the  little  garden, 
with  her  hat  tied  down  close  over  her  face  and 
her  hands  in  her  heavy  worsted  gloves. 

Miss  Hollins  had  watched  her  from  behind 
the  shutters  with  a  newly  tender  smile,  drawing 
258 


THE   MEETING   OF  THE   WATEES 

her  own  conclusions.  "For  all  the  world  like 
her  father,  proud  and  silent  and — and  obstinate, 
the  dear  !  And  now  if  I  should  oppose  her  —  if 
I  should  try  to  talk  her  out  of  it  when  it 's  all 
as  new  as — as  heaven  to  her!  And  that  fiery, 
gifted  fellow,  with  his  flowers  and  his  music 
and  his  mystery !  Dr.  Britton  says  it 's  like 
forest  fires  —  that  kind  of  thing  after  it  gets 
started.  And  Dr.  Britton  knows  Prunella,  and 
he  says  it 's  safer  to  be  nice  to  him,  to  let  Pru- 
nella see  just  how  awkward  and  queer  he  is, 
and  —  and  that  her  own  good  sense  will  be  the 
— the  extinguisher.  And  then  Mrs.  Wieniaski 
in  her  bare  feet  —  that  will  finish  it." 

"  How  can  Olivia  come  anyhow  ?  "  Prunella 
was  going  on,  ranging  the  shining  glasses  in 
rows  with  unnecessary  regularity.  "  Her  school 
begins  Monday." 

"Oh,  she'll  be  home  by  five,"  Miss  Hollins 
said  cheerfully,  skimming  the  jelly.  "  Five 
o'clock  tea  we  '11  say.  I  '11  write  the  invitations 
first  thing  after  dinner.  I'll  use  those  pretty 
cards  you  gave  me  last  Christmas,  Prunella." 

"  Write  the  cards ! "  Prunella  exclaimed.  "  I 

can  save  you  all  that  trouble.  I  '11  tell  the  people 

when  they  come  into  the  post-office  to  get  their 

mail.  They  're  sure  to  come,  especially  Olivia." 

259 


THE   INVADERS 


"Not  Bride,"  Miss  Hollins  said,  carefully 
inspecting  the  interior  of  the  kettle. 

"  No,  not  Bride,  but  then  Mr.  Joyce  will  — • 
or  the  chauffeur  —  or  the  young  man." 

"  No,  Prunella,  I  think  I  '11  write  the  invita- 
tions. I've  always  wanted  to  use  the  pretty 
cards." 

So  after  dinner,  Miss  Hollins  polished  her 
spectacles,  and  put  a  new  pin-pointed  pen  into  her 
pearl-handled  holder  that  her  father  had  given 
her  when  she  was  graduated  from  the  Academy 
and  read  the  essay  on  "  Woman's  Destiny," 
and  got  out  a  fresh  piece  of  pink  blotting-paper 
that  had  no  reflected  cash  accounts  on  it,  and 
set  to  work  to  inform  the  chosen  few  that  she 
should  be  very  glad  to  see  them  on  Thursday 
for  five  o'clock  tea.  The  one  for  Bride  she 
blotted,  and  the  address  looked  a  little  awry  on 
the  envelope.  So  that  had  to  be  rewritten  with 
even  more  elaborate  care. 

It  was  not  surprising  that  so  delicate  and 
beautiful  a  penmanship  on  Prunella's  Christmas- 
gift  cards  should  bring  every  one  of  the  "  six 
sure."  The  "seventh,  perhaps,"  Mrs.  Ladd, 
sent  much  love  by  Olivia,  and  a  great  bunch  of 
hardy  red  and  yellow  and  purple  asters,  which 

became  very  well  the  bearer's  white  gown ;  but 
260 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE  WATERS 

she  herself  was  too  tired  to  give  herself  the 
pleasure.  "  Lou"  would  understand. 

Of  the  six,  Dr.  Britton  came  first,  with  a 
bunch  of  last  roses,  which  went  into  a  Lowe- 
stoft  bowl  in  the  sparkling  and  fragrant  and 
appetizing  midst  of  the  tea-things  on  the  old 
claw-footed  mahogany  table,  around  which  were 
ranged  with  formal  informality  the  fine  old 
Chippendale  chairs.  On  these  very  same  chairs, 
Dr.  Britton  quite  well  remembered  to  have  seen 
sitting  gentle  ladies  and  good  men  who  had  long 
since  found  a  less  upright  resting-place  under 
the  periwinkle  in  the  Fernfield  God's  Acre.  And 
perhaps  it  was  the  thought  of  these  absent 
gentlefolk  that  gave  so  bright  a  gleam  to  his 
eyes  and  so  genial  a  warmth  to  his  hand-clasp 
when  Prunella  met  him  on  the  porch,  under  the 
clematis,  and  bore  away  the  roses,  and  Miss 
Hollins,  in  black  china  silk,  received  him  under 
her  father's  portrait  in  the  little  drawing-room. 
Miss  Kirk,  with  a  pink  cosmos  in  her  white  lace 
jabot,  sat  on  the  davenport  near  the  hostess, 
and  it  was  to  her  that  Dr.  Britton  found  him- 
self transferred  and  talking  of  Prunella's  pret- 
tiness  and  goodness,  while  Miss  Hollins  went 
to  light  the  candles  and  Olivia  came  up  the 
porch  steps  with  her  gay  flowers,  and  Prunella 
261 


THE   INVADERS 


took  her  on  in  to  see  how  pretty  the  tea-table 
looked. 

But,  though  they  were  discussing  the  bloom 
of  youth,  Dr.  Britton  was  thinking  that  never 
had  he  seen  Miss  Hollins  with  so  youthful  a 
bloom  on  her  countenance  as  when  she  finished 
her  illuminations,  and  went  to  the  front  door 
again  and  again,  and  upstairs  to  get  a  handker- 
chief she  had  forgotten,  and  out  into  the 
kitchen  to  see  that  the  tea-kettle  was  really 
boiling  and  not  just  making  believe. 

It  was  while  she  was  questioning  the  integrity 
of  the  tea-kettle  that  the  shining  motor  car 
rolled  close  to  her  curbing  and  out  of  it  a  blos- 
soming Biruam  Wood  seemed  coming  to  Dun- 
sinane.  It  was  an  airy,  waving,  pink  and  white 
Birnam  Wood  composed  of  long  sprays  of 
cosmos,  and  in  the  midst  of  it,  with  the  assist- 
ance of  a  very  smiling  elderly  gentleman  in  blue 
serge  and  a  snowy  waistcoat,  there  alighted  a 
slender  young  lady  in  a  very  unstylish  soft 
white  mull  gown.  Her  hat,  with  the  tulle  trim- 
mings, was  tipped  a  little  to  one  side  in  a  tangle 
of  cosmos,  and  her  cheeks  were  quite  as  pink 
and  white  as  the  flowers. 

"  Faith,  Uncle  Mike,"  she  was  saying,  "I  can 
carry  them,  and  y'  need  n't  throuble  to  send  for 
262 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE  WATERS 

me.  It  will  be  only  pleasant,  the  walk  home 
through  the  fields." 

"  No,  no  !  Sure  we  '11  come  for  y ',"  called 
the  smiling  gentleman.  And  then,  when  he  had 
climbed  into  the  car  and  had  roused  the  young 
gentleman  at  the  wheel,  who  was  not  the 
chauffeur,  from  his  contemplation  of  the  outside 
of  the  tea-party  to  which  he  was  not  invited, 
the  car  rolled  away  and  the  festivities  began. 

Miss  Hollins  had  got  back  to  her  father's 
portrait  by  the  time  Bride  had  laid  her  cosmos 
in  Prunella's  arms,  and  taken  Olivia's  out- 
stretched hand  a  little  timidly,  and  advanced  to 
the  drawing-room  door.  But  she  left  the  ances- 
tral background  with  cordial  quickness  and  came 
forward  with  both  hands  in  welcome  when  she 
saw  the  new  arrival. 

"  We  are  very  glad  to  see  you,  Bride,"  she 
said,  holding  her  hand  a  moment.  "Now  we 
have  the  three  Graces,  have  n't  we,  Dr.  Britton 
—  Bride  and  Olivia  and  Prunella?  This  is 
Miss  Joyce,  Dr.  Britton." 

"The  Greeks  weren't  mathematicians  in 
feminine  matters,"  he  said  gallantly,  shaking 
hands.  "I've  always  been  sure  there  were  five 
Graces  and  — " 

"  And  how  many  Fates,  Dr.  Britton  ?  "  Olivia 
263 


THE  INVADERS 


asked  in  the  midst  of  the  laughter.  "  I  'd  much 
rather  be  a  Fate  than  a  Grace.  It 's  much  more 
independent." 

"  I  might  have  known  you  'd  prefer  that, 
Olivia.  And  you  are,  my  dear!  You  area  Fate. 
Every  woman  is.  That's  her  chief  responsibil- 
ity." He  spoke  lightly,  but  he  was  thinking 
how  very  truly  and  solemnly  he  meant  what  he 
was  saying,  as  he  looked  at  this  very  lovely  and 
proud  and  high-spirited  young  woman  whom 
he  had  known  ever  since  she  was  an  imperious 
baby. 

"  You  're  not  if  you  don't  want  to  be,  Dr. 
Britton,"  Prunella  said  quickly.  "  Nobody  can 
make  you." 

He  laughed  and  shook  his  finger  at  her. 
"  But  you  just  are,  Prunella.  You  have  no  choice 
in  the  matter,  any  more  than  you  can  choose 
whether  you  '11  have  curly  dark  hair  or  wavy 
gold." 

"  It's  like  the  story  of  Deirdre,  the  way  they 
hid  her  in  the  forest,  and  she  to  do  no  harm 
with  her  beauty,"  Bride  said  softly,  with  a  faint 
deepening  of  color.  "  But  the  huntsman  heard 
her  singing  and  told  the  king,  and  she  knowing 
nothing  of  the  great  wor-rld.  It 's  no  use,  the 
hiding." 

264 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE  WATERS 

Olivia  had  colored,  too,  and  come  a  little 
nearer.  "It's  very  wonderful,  your  folk-lore, 
isn't  it,  Miss  Joyce?"  she  began  cordially. 
"  And  I  heard  you  telling  stories  one  night  this 
summer  on  the  meeting-house  steps.  The  child- 
ren seemed  to  love  every  word  you  said." 

"  Oh,  but  I  love  so  to  tell  them,  the  way  my 
brother  says  I  'm  never  knowing  when  to  stop. 
Always  it  has  been  what  I  love  best,  to  tell  the 
old  tales  to  the  little  ones." 

They  were  all  moving  into  the  dining-room, 
and  presently  Bride  found  herself  sitting  by 
Miss  Ladd  on  the  side  with  the  cherry  marma- 
lade and  the  thin  bread  and  butter,  and  Dr. 
Britton  was  coming  up  with  the  snowy  little 
napkins  and  announcing  himself  the  waiter  en- 
gaged for  the  occasion,  and  Miss  Hollins  was 
pouring  tea  and  vowing  that  he  was  the  guest 
of  honor.  In  and  out  of  the  fun  and  chatter, 
Bride  was  making  her  own  reading  of  the  proud 
yet  tender  face  under  the  big  white  hat,  all  the 
while  that  she  told  of  the  children  at  home  that 
she  was  missing,  the  way  that  she  must  know 
the  little  ones  here,  and  of  Leenane  and  the 
Killeries  and  the  glens  and  moors  and  brooks 
that  she  and  Patrick  knew  as  well  as  Miss  Ladd 
knew  the  main  street  in  Fernfield.  And  as  she 
265 


THE   INVADERS 


went  on  in  her  soft  Gaelic  inflection,  drinking 
the  tea  that  Miss  Hollins  had  poured  for  her  in 
the  prettiest  Lowestoft  cup,  Olivia  too  was  mak- 
ing her  reading,  and  urging  on  the  charming 
talk  that  was  so  unlike  any  talk  she  ever  had 
heard,  with  all  her  learning,  and  measuring  and 
weighing,  and  prodding  herself  now  and  then 
with  the  remembrance  of  who  the  talker  was, 
and  then  forgetting,  and  remembering  the  green 
glooms  of  the  tobacco  barn  and  a  very  proud 
young  man  standing  in  the  doorway  looking 
out  at  the  rain. 

"  You  and  your  brother  are  very  great  chums, 
aren't  you?"  she  said,  smiling.  "It  must  be 
such  solid  comfort  to  have  a  big  brother  to 
stand  between  you  and  —  and  things."  And 
she  sipped  the  tea  she  had  forgotten  to  drink. 

"  Sure,  always  we '  ve  been.  And  always  we  Ve 
done  things  together,  Patrick  and  I  —  and 
Aileen,  except  the  years  he  was  away  in  the  uni- 
versity. Then  it  was  always  of  him  and  of  what 
we  would  do  when  he  was  at  home  again,  that 
Aileen  and  I  were  talking." 

Olivia  lifted  her  dark  level  brows.  "  Aileen ! " 
she  exclaimed.  "And  you  have  a  sister,  too?" 
She  was  a  fortunate  girl. 

"  Not  a  real  sister,  but  as  good  as  one,  Aileen 
266 


THE   MEETING  OF  THE   WATERS 

is,"  Bride  explained.  "And  such  a  beauty  she 
is!  Her  picture  has  gone  to  the  Duchess  of 
Connaught,  she  's  that  pretty  —  and  that  gay." 

"  Who 's  <  that  pretty  and  that  gay '  ?  "  Dr. 
Britton  broke  in,  offering  the  old  Sheffield 
basket  of  kisses.  "  So  many  people  are ! " 

"  You  are,  Dr.  Britton,  waiting  on  us  girls," 
Olivia  laughed.  "  Now  you  sit  down  here  and 
let  me  do  my  share."  And  she  took  the  basket 
from  him  and  threw  her  napkin  over  his  arm. 
"And  do  get  Miss  Joyce  to  tell  you  some  of 
the  interesting  things  she  's  been  telling  me." 

And  then  she  went  over  to  tell  Miss  Kirk 
about  the  scarlet  of  the  swamp  maples  down  by 
the  river,  and  the  bird-notes  she  had  recognized 
when  she  was  planting  turnips.  And  Miss  Hol- 
lins  and  Prunella  came  up  to  hear  about  school, 
and  Miss  Kirk  said  that  she  wished  there  could 
be  a  concert  every  week  by  that  strangely  gifted 
boy,  and  Prunella  colored  and  got  up  to  pour 
hot  water  into  the  hot-water  jug  and  began  to 
pour  it  into  the  cream  pitcher.  And  then  Dr. 
Britton  asked  her  how  her  vegetables  were  grow- 
ing, and  drew  up  a  chair  for  her  next  to  Bride. 
It  was  fortunate  for  Prunella  that  just  here  Miss 
Kirk's  tremulous  voice  broke  into  the  chatter 
with  a  question. 

267 


THE  INVADERS 


"  Will  not  Miss  Joyce  sing  for  us,  Miss  Hol- 
lins?  Somehow  I  know  that  she  can  sing  — 
perhaps  '  The  Meeting  of  the  Waters '  and  '  By 
Bendimere's  Stream/  if  she  would  ! " 

"  Oh,  it  is  like  the  chirp  of  a  wren,  my  sing- 
ing," Bride  laughed.  "But  very  gladly  will  I 
try." 

So  Dr.  Britton  carried  the  candles  into  the 
drawing-room  and  opened  the  old  square  piano, 
and  Bride  took  off  her  hat  and  sat  down  on  the 
lyre  Miss  Hollins's  mother  had  embroidered  on 
the  piano-stool  when  she  was  at  Maplewood 
Seminary. 

Olivia,  in  the  window  seat,  leaned  back  in 
the  twilight  freshness  that  moved  the  old  lace 
curtains.  She,  too,  was  experiencing  her  read- 
justment, as  she  saw  the  soft  light  on  Bride's 
hair,  her  slender  hands  on  the  yellow  keys,  her 
round  white  throat  with  its  little  gold  medal  on 
the  fine  chain.  And  then  presently  Bride  sang, 
in  the  tenderest  little  contralto, — 

"  Oh,  there  's  not  in  this  world  a  valley  so  sweet, 
As  the  vale  in  whose  bosom  the  bright  waters  meet." 

And  after  Miss  Kirk's  two,  Dr.  Britton  asked 
for  many,  and  Miss  Hollinssaid  that  her  mother 
used  to  sing  «  Oft  in  the  Stilly  Night,"  "  The 
268 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE  WATEES 

Minstrel  Boy,"  and  "Believe  me  if  all  those 
Endearing  Young  Charms,"  and  did  Bride  know 
them  ?  And  Bride  did  and  on  she  sang,  and  the 
candles  began  to  sputter,  and  the  stars  came  out, 
and  Prunella  heard  a  man's  step  on  the  porch. 

Afterwards,  when  Olivia  was  smoothing  down 
her  feathers,  disordered  from  the  swift  ride 
home  in  the  Joyce's  motor-car,  she  said  gayly, 
"  Why,  Mamma,  it  was  positively  brilliant.  You 
ought  to  have  seen  Miss  Hollins  when  the 
motor-car  came  for  Miss  Joyce,  and  Mr.  Michael 
Joyce  rang  the  bell.  You  ought  to  have  seen 
how  calmly,  and  how  serenely,  she  asked  him 
in  and  introduced  him  to  Miss  Kirk  and  Pru- 
nella and  me.  I  knew  him,  of  course,  from  the 
other  day ;  and  Dr.  Britton  and  he  shook  hands 
as  if  they  had  been  old  friends.  And  that  Miss 
Joyce  is  a  dream,  Mamma.  No  matter  how  you 
feel  you  can't  deny  it.  And  her  songs !  And 
somehow,  she  's  so  absolutely  simple  you  can't 
question  her  breeding.  It's  just  as  it  is  with 
plate-glass,  you  know  —  you  can't  see  the  glass. 
Positively,  I  feel  as  if  I  'd  been  juggled.  I  wou- 
der  what  made  Miss  Hollins  do  it,  Mamma." 

Mrs.  Ladd  was  toasting  bread  over  an  open 
stove  hole.  She  held  her  thin  hand  between  her 
face  and  the  fire. 

269 


THE   INVADERS 


"  Because  —  because  it 's  Lou's  idea  of  being 
a  Christian,"  she  said.  "  She  's  doing  just  what 
the  Bible  says,  I  suppose.  But,  then,  dear  as  she 
is,  Lou  Hollins  never  did  have  any  social  sense." 

And  Lou  Hollins,  snuffing  the  candles  and 
nibbling  the  crumbs  of  kisses  in  the  bottom  of 
the  Sheffield  basket,  declared,  "  Well,  now  my 
conscience  is  easy,  Prunella.  And  Miss  Kirk 
did  have  such  a  good  time.  And  Olivia  was  per- 
fectly charming,  was  n't  she !  And  the  songs ! 
Was  anything  ever  sweeter  !  Somehow"  — and 
Miss  Hollins  laughed,  as  she  always  did  when 
she  was  going  to  say  anything  especially  inti- 
mate and  tender  —  "  somehow,  Prunella,  it  did 
seem  as  if  Mother  would  have  been  very  glad  to 
have  Bride  playing  on  her  piano  and  sitting  on 
that  stool.  Dr.  Britton  said  he  thought  so.  And 
did  n't  he  have  the  best  time  with  you  girls  ! " 

Prunella  yawned.  "  Oh,  he 's  a  dear ! "  she 
said.  "  Why,  Aunt  Lou,  you  Ve  forgotten  your 
apron  —  and  with  your  best  dress  !  But  I  don't 
see  why  the  Irish  are  getting  all  the  attention." 

And  perhaps  the  Irish  were  getting  more 
than  their  share  of  attention.  At  any  rate,  Fate 
was  concentrating  upon  certain  Irish  destinies. 

It  was  that  night,  very  late,  that  Bride  woke 
from  her  home  dreams  upon  hearing  the  auto- 
270 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE  WATERS 

mobile  whirl  round  the  house.  She  awoke 
enough  to  say  to  herself,  "  Thank  God,  he 's 
back  safe.  I  did  n't  like  the  look  of  him  at  sup- 
per. An'  away  all  this  long  evenin'."  And  then 
she  drifted  back  to  a  rocking  boat  on  Killery 
Bay,  and  had  had  a  day's  fishing  when  Patrick 
opened  her  door  and  came  in. 

"  Bride,"  he  said,  very  softly,  sitting  on  the 
side  of  her  bed.  He  smelt  of  fresh  air  and  the 
hand  he  clasped  around  hers  was  as  cold  as  if 
he  had  been  in  the  very  bow  of  the  rocking 
boat  of  her  dreams. 

"Yes,  Pat!  What  is  it?"  she  said  quickly. 
"  It 's  not  sick  y'  are,  dear  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  no ! "  he  whispered  on  quickly. 
"I'm  all  right  — only  I  had  t'  tell  y'.  I've 
been  all  over  the  mountains  thinkin'  it  out  how 
t'  tell  y'."  And  he  put  his  other  cold  hand 
around  hers.  "It 's  just  as  y'  said,  dear,  the  night 
in  the  garden.  Sometimes  —  sometimes  it 's  the 
other  one  that 's  not  true.  An'  the  other  one, 
Bride,  is  little  Aileen.  Brian  Desmond 's  the 
lad,  God  bless  her." 

"  The  little  cruel  cat ! "  Bride  hissed  savagely, 
sitting  up  with  a  jump.  "  But  it  '11  not  break 
the  heart  of  y',  darlin'!"  And  her  arms  went 
round  his  neck. 

271 


THE   INVADERS 


"  No,  indeed,  it  '11  not  break  the  heart  of  me, 
dear !  "  he  said  tenderly,  "  with  y'  f 'r  a  sister. 
An'  this  new  country — 'twould  be  a  strange 
land  for  Aileen." 

When  he  had  gone  as  quickly  and  quietly  as 
he  had  conie,  she  sailed  no  more  in  a  rocking 
boat  on  Killery. 

"  The  little  cruel  cat ! "  she  kept  whispering 
to  herself,  until  she  quite  irrelevantly  thought 
of  the  pink  and  white  Lowestoft  cup  at  Miss 
Hollins's  tea-party  that  day,  and  of  Olivia's 
eyes  under  the  big  white  hat. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE    BLUE    OF    THE   GENTIAN 

JJY  and  Apollonia  were  eating  their  dinner  to- 
gether under  the  old  rock  maples  in  the  school- 
yard. Now  and  then  a  yellow  leaf  fluttered  down 
on  Apollonia's  sleek  black  hair,  braided  in  the 
thick  plait  with  the  red  calico  bow,  or  on  By's 
sturdy  little  shoulders  in  the  shabby  grey 
sweater;  and  once  a  bunch  of  leaves,  like  a 
handful  of  gold,  fell  right  into  his  open  dinner- 
pail  with  the  three  doughnuts  in  the  bottom. 
There  was  a  deep  significance  in  the  number  of 
the  doughnuts.  By  had  thought  of  it  many 
times  since  surreptitiously  making  a  trilogy  of 
the  two  that  his  mother  had  thought  enough 
for  his  consumption.  Two  were  for  Apollonia 
—  one  for  himself. 

Two  for  Apollonia  and  one  for  himself  was 
exactly  indicative  of  the  state  of  his  feelings 
ever  since  the  opening  of  school  four  days  be- 
fore. He  and  Apollonia  had  become  one  in  their 
championship  of  the  new  teacher,  and  it  was 
the  opportunity  to  talk  her  over  with  breathless 
delight,  between  bites,  that  had  made  them  pool 
273 


THE   INVADERS 


their  dinner-pails.  Besides,  there  was  the  sym- 
pathy that  grew  out  of  the  sense  of  being  the 
teacher's  mainstay  and  support  in  the  running 
of  the  school :  By,  the  water-carrier,  fire-tender, 
clock-winder,  floor-sweeper ;  Apollonia,  desk- 
duster,  flower-arranger,  book-distributor,  and 
hovering  angel  to  the  little  ones  over  their  prim- 
ers and  with  their  coats  and  hats. 

"Ain't  her  hands  nice!"  said  Apollonia, 
swallowing  a  chunk  of  sausage  hurriedly.  "  But 
she  ain't  got  no  rings." 

"  Shucks !  She  ain't  the  kind  that  wears 
rings,"  By  exclaimed  scornfully.  "  She  can 
plant  turnips  and  rye  just  like  a  man,  she  can. 
I  saw  her.  And  she  ain't  proud." 

"  She 's  the  proud  kind,  but  she  ain't,"  Apol- 
lonia discriminated.  "I  could  kiss  her  —  her 
foot." 

"I  could  n't.  That's  silly.  But  you  bet  she 
ain't  proud.  Why,  the  other  day  she  came  t'  our 
house  t'  buy  hens.  Yes,  she  did.  An'  she  car- 
ried two  of  'em  tied  together  by  the  feet,  all  the 
way  home.  My  mother  said  t'  let  me,  but  she 
laughed  an'  said  she  liked  to." 

"I  don't  like  t'  carry  hens,"  commented 
Apollonia  slowly,  "wizout  shoes  and  stock- 
ings. Zey  pick  y'."  She  was  munching  the  first 
274 


THE   BLUE   OF  THE   GENTIAN 

doughnut  and  wondering  about  the  fate  of  the 
third. 

"  But  she  had  shoes  and  stockings,  of  course," 
By  said,  a  little  condescendingly.  "An*  that's 
your  doughnut,  Apollonia.  Sure  it  is.  One 's  all 
I  want.  And  —  and  I  brought  that  for  you." 

"  Did  y'  ?  My  muzzer,  I  wish  she  can  make 
these  cakes." 

"  Shucks !  My  mother  can  make  'em  lots  bet- 
ter than  these.  These  aren't  much.  She  can 
make  dandies  with  raisins  in  'em  an'  frostin'  on 
top.  An,'  Apollonia,  say  !  I  '11  tell  y'  somethin' 
if  y'  won't  tell  nobody,  —  not  even  Marinska 
and  Sofia.  It 's  a  secret — you  know." 

Apollonia  looked  at  him  with  her  solemn 
black  eyes. 

"  Not  much  I  tell  zat  Marinska,"  she  said. 
"  She  tell  lies.  She  say  Teacher  haf  not  enough 
fat." 

By  could  not  wait  for  further  oaths  of  se- 
crecy. 

"That  feller  that  has  the  big  dandy  automo- 
bile, I  know  him.  An'  he  goes  fishin'  with  me. 
An'  he  gave  me  a  dollar — on  the  quiet,  y'  know, 
—  an'  he  said  to  be  good  to  the  Teacher  —  that 
it 's  right." 

Apollonia  swallowed  the  last  of  the  last 
275 


THE  INVADERS 


doughnut  hurriedly.  "An*  Fazzer  Zujewski, 
also  he  say  to  mind  ze  Teacher  an*  spick  nice. 
But  he  ain't  gave  me  a  dollar." 

"  He  ain't  got  any,  that 's  why.  But  my 
fel  — " 

The  school-bell  jangled.  Olivia  stood  on  the 
steps  in  her  dull  blue  linen.  There  was  a  wild 
sun-flower  in  her  belt,  the  offering  of  the  false 
Marinska.  Tony  Kwiatkowski  had  relieved  her 
of  the  arduous  task  of  bell-ringing,  and  it  was 
just  as  well,  for  Adam  Wyszatchi,  in  a  checked 
blue  gingham  apron,  held  her  right  hand,  and 
Basia,  his  older  sister,  aged  five,  fervently 
clasped  her  left. 

And  presently  she  was  standing  at  her 
flower-trimmed  desk  on  the  platform,  with  the 
background  of  the  picture  of  Washington 
draped  in  the  Stars  and  Stripes,  and  facing  the 
picture  of  Lincoln  in  the  garland  of  bittersweet 
that  By  and  Apollonia  had  made  for  it.  On  each 
side  of  Lincoln,  a  window  made  as  inspiring  a 
picture,  with  the  landscape  of  onion  fields  and 
tobacco  fields  and  stacked  corn  and  red  barns, 
and  beyond,  the  yellowing  hills  in  the  Septem- 
ber haze.  Through  the  side  windows  that  looked 
towards  the  west,  flickering  yellowish  beams 
fell  in  through  the  maples,  and  played  over  the 
276 


THE   BLUE   OF  THE   GENTIAN 

desks  and  the   brown    and   black   and  blond 
heads  o£  the  children. 

"  Copybooks,  please,"  the  teacher  said  in  her 
brisk  voice  that  made  work  seem  such  a  pleasant 
affair. 

And  then  Apollonia  sprang  up  and  went 
among  the  rows  with  the  pile  of  writing-books, 
and  nodded  knowingly  to  By  as  she  gave  him 
his.  And  Olivia  went  to  the  board  on  the  wall 
between  the  western  windows  and,  in  the  flicker 
of  the  maple  leaves,  stood  writing  carefully  and 
symmetrically  and  plumply,  "  CAT "  in  charac- 
ters that  she  failed  to  recognize  as  her  own.  Not 
even  Dacre  Welling,  in  all  the  letters  that  were 
tucked  into  the  various  pockets  of  his  various 
coats  in  the  studio  in  Paris,  could  have  found 
characters  that  at  all  resembled  the  ones  Olivia 
had  so  carefully  put  upon  the  board,  nor  the 
ones  that  she  proceeded,  with  a  fine  ear  for 
phonetics,  to  put  under  them :  "  Mat,  Rat,  Sat, 
Bat,  Hat,  Tat,  Vat." 

"  Say  them  over  with  me,  children,  carefully," 
she  smiled,  "and  then  write  them  while  we 
count  the  strokes." 

"  Cat,  Mat,  Rat,  Sat,  Bat,  Hat,  Tat,  Vat," 
chanted  the  children. 

By's  hand  flew  wildly  up  into  the  air. 
277 


THE   INVADERS 


"What  is  it,  Byron?"  Olivia  asked  ap- 
provingly. She  was  encouraging  a  judicious 
freedom  of  speech. 

"  And  Pat?  "  said  By  valiantly. 

Olivia  colored  quickly.  "  That,"  she  said 
didactically,  "  that  is  only  a  proper  name.  Take 
your  pens,  children.  One  —  two  —  three  —  " 

And  in  an  obedient  moment,  the  heads  were 
all  bent  over  the  books  and  the  brown  little 
hands  were  rounding  the  curves,  leaving  Teacher 
to  meet  no  eyes  more  curious  than  those  of  the 
patriots  on  the  wall. 

And  so  the  afternoon  went  on,  the  golden 
flicker  dropping  ever  lower  and  lower  in  the 
maples.  Olivia  hardly  felt  the  minutes  go,  so 
much  was  she  already  a  part  of  her  new  work. 
That  she  "adored  it"  she  had  written  Betty 
Preston  the  very  first  night  she  had  been  a 
teacher.  And  it  was  little  wonder  that  she  loved 
it,  when  she  herself  found  so  much  love  awaiting 
her.  For  the  first  time  in  all  her  highly  trained 
and  skillfully  developed  life,  she  felt  the  im- 
pulse to  write  a  poem,  as  she  looked  down  into 
the  limpid,  smiling  eyes  of  the  children  and 
realized  the  little  souls  looking  out  at  her.  And 
it  was  "  a  lyrical  experience,"  as  she  told  Betty, 
when  she  felt  their  arms  around  her  skirts, 
278 


THE  BLUE  OF  THE   GENTIAN 

clinging  to  her,  and  their  small,  trusting  hands 
in  hers.  And  then  the  young  gallantry  and 
loyalty  of  the  bigger  boys,  By  and  his  fellows  of 
ten  and  twelve  !  Surely  in  such  tribute  a  woman 
got  a  breath  of  Arthurian  chivalry !  So  she  wrote 
to  Betty,  her  college  chum,  who  was  trying 
a  similar,  and  yet  very  dissimilar,  experience  in 
a  Young  Ladies'  Preparatory  and  Finishing 
School  in  Philadelphia.  But  to  Dacre  she 
poured  forth  no  such  enthusiasms.  He  would 
only  smile  skeptically  at  her  sentiment,  and  be- 
sides, somehow,  —  although  just  how  and  why 
she  could  not  explain  even  to  herself,  —  she  did 
not  care  to  have  Dacre  feel  that  she  was  finding 
her  winter's  work  and  responsibility  any  too 
easy  or  too  pleasant. 

It  was  perhaps  half  an  hour  after  she  had 
dismissed  her  reluctant  classes,  staying,  herself, 
to  prepare  the  work  for  the  first  period  on  the 
following  Monday,  that  By  and  Apollonia 
were  loitering  along  the  Fernfield  road,  munch- 
ing apples  that  grew  on  By's  secret  tree,  and 
keeping  their  eyes  open  for  the  blue  patches  in 
the  low,  sunny  fields  that  meant  gentians.  Just 
as  they  returned  empty-handed  from  a  wild 
run  into  a  patch  of  low-growing  asters,  which 
masquerade,  sometimes,  as  gentians,  a  motor- 
279 


THE  INVADERS 


horn  shrieked  out  ahead  of  them  and  a  cloud 
of  dust  whirled  around  a  bend.  Apollonia 
scuttled  back  to  the  wall  and  climbed  up. 

•  "It's  him!  I  bet  it's  him!"  screamed  By. 
"  That 's  his  horn.  I  know  it  every  time."  And 
he  stood  in  the  butter  and  eggs  by  the  roadside 
and  waved  his  arms  delightedly. 

The  machine  slowed  down  at  his  very  toes, 
and  out  of  the  dust  there  emerged  the  smiling 
face  of  Mr.  Patrick  Joyce  under  a  brown 
leather  cap  that  to  By  seemed  as  royal  a  thing 
as  an  imperial  crown.  Apollonia  put  one  leg,  in 
its  wrinkled  white  cotton  stocking,  over  on  Mr. 
Joyce's  side  of  the  wall. 

"  Want  a  ride  ? "  called  Mr.  Joyce  gayly. 
"  Plenty  of  room,  you  see." 

"  You  bet !  "  By  cried,  beginning  to  climb  in 
over  the  door. 

"  But  your  friend !  Faith,  y're  not  a  very 
gallant  chap  t'  leave  her  behind." 

"  Oh,  come  on,  Apollonia ! "  By  said  non- 
chalantly. "  I  forgot.  Hurry  up  an'  get  in." 

So  Apollonia  put  the  other  leg  nimbly  on  the 
right  side  of  the  wall,  and  picking  up  her 
school-bag  and  dinner-pail,  as  well  as  By's, 
scuttled  down  to  the  car  and  climbed  in. 

"  Both  of  y'  in  the  back,  please,"  said  Mr. 
280 


THE  BLUE  OF  THE  GENTIAN 

Joyce,  giving  her  a  lift  over  the  door.  "It's 
easier,  the  ridin',  for  little  people  like  you.  And 
now  I  'm  going  to  take  a  little  run  up  beyond 
the  schoolhouse  to  see  whether  Mr.  Wojnarow- 
ski  has  got  in  all  his  tobacco,  and  then  we'll 
go  home." 

So  he  gave  a  grand  turn  to  the  wheel,  and 
Apollonia  clutched  the  seat  with  one  hand  and 
By  with  the  other,  and  in  a  flash  they  were 
right  back  at  school,  slowing  down  a  bit,  per- 
haps, and  they  could  see  Miss  Ladd  quite 
plainly  just  in  the  act  of  locking  the  door.  The 
two  in  the  back  gave  her  a  wild  shriek  of 
greeting,  but  it  was  lost  in  the  increase  of 
speed  with  which  Mr.  Joyce  flew  on  beyond 
the  schoolhouse  and  up  the  hill  and  down  over 
the  bridge  and  round  by  the  North  Fernfield 
meeting-house  and  past  Mr.  Zashetzky's  and 
Mr.  Zoszczezynsky's.  He  was  all  off  the  road 
to  Mr.  Wojnarowski's,  and  By  tried  to  tell  him 
so,  but  it  was  no  use.  He  and  Apollonia  were 
rattling  round  like  peas  in  a  pod  and  the  horn 
was  tooting  at  the  Polish  children  and  the  Po- 
lish chickens  that  ran  into  the  road.  And  then, 
before  he  knew  it,  Mr.  Joyce  had  made  a  swift, 
wide  turn,  and,  lo  and  behold,  they  were  back 
at  the  schoolhouse,  slowing  up  just  enough  for 
281 


THE   INVADERS 


By  to  see  that  the  shades  were  all  down  and  the 
place  quite  deserted. 

u  Gee  !  "  Apollonia  gasped,  brushing  the  hair 
out  of  her  eyes.  "  If  I  ever  !  "  And  then  gasped 
again  in  terror  lest  Mr.  Joyce  run  down  and 
over  Miss  Ladd,  who  was  going  along  in  a 
leisurely  fashion  right  in  the  middle  of  the 
road  ahead  of  them. 

But  such  a  catastrophe  was  averted,  and  in- 
stead, the  two  in  the  back  were  beaming  au- 
dience for  the  little  comedy  —  Mr.  Joyce  out 
in  the  road  in  a  jiffy  with  his  cap  in  his  hand, 
explaining  that  he  had  just  been  up  to  take  a 
look  at  Mr.  Wojnarowski's  onion  fields  and 
that  he  had  already  picked  up  a  part  of  Miss 
Ladd's  educational  establishment  and  would  n't 
she  now  permit  the  other  part  to  be  picked  up  ? 
And  then  Teacher,  pink  and  queer  as  she  had 
never  yet  appeared  in  the  school,  and  hesitating 
as  they  had  never  seen  her  hesitate,  and  then 
finally  helped  in  as  if  she  had  been  made  of 
sugar  like  the  dogs  and  cats  in  the  Christmas 
stockings ;  and  then  a  brave  turn  of  the  wheel 
and  they  were  off  again,  Mr.  Joyce  looking  very 
straight  ahead  and  Teacher's  hat  in  her  lap  and 
her  bright  hair  blowing  back  from  the  face 
that  she  turned  towards  him. 
282 


THE   BLUE   OF  THE   GENTIAN 

When  they  got  to  Fernfield  Four  Corners, 
where  they  should  have  gone  to  the  right,  they 
went  quite  to  the  left,  and  presently  they  were 
flying  along  towards  the  very  hills  that  had 
been  off  in  the  haze  all  afternoon.  To  the  two 
in  the  back,  the  swift  approach  of  the  hills  was 
quite  as  much  of  a  miracle  as  if  they  had 
marched  majestically  down  to  the  Fernfield 
street;  and  the  marvel  of  it  all  was  so  great 
that  they  had  no  eyes  for  the  flushed  face  that 
Mr.  Joyce  turned  to  Miss  Ladd,  with  a  little 
laugh  and  something  about" Aileen,  ever  since 
I  was  born,"  nor  for  Miss  Ladd's  smile  and  her, 
"  the  beauty  of  friendships  like  that."  And  when 
they  had  climbed  so  high  in  the  hills  that  the 
Fernfield  meeting-house  spire  looked  as  small 
as  the  hand  on  a  watch,  and  they  came  upon  a 
high,  sunny  field  that  was  as  blue  with  gentians 
as  the  sky  over  their  heads,  it  seemed  to  By  and 
Apollonia  that  it  was  all  just  part  of  the  fairy 
story  that  the  Teacher  had  begun  to  tell  them 
at  recess  the  day  that  it  rained. 

"  Suppose  we  all  get  out  and  pick  those  pretty 
blue  flowers  for  Miss  Ladd,"  said  Mr.  Joyce, 
when  they  had  slowed  down  a  little  at  the 
roadside,  under  a  scarlet  maple. 

"  Suppose  we  do !  "  laughed  Miss  Ladd. 
283 


THE   INVADERS 


"  And  I  will  take  a  big  bunch  to  Miss  Kirk  at 
Miss  Hollins's.  Have  you  ever  heard  of  Miss 
Kirk,  the  blind  lady  who  has  lived  with  Miss 
Hollins  ever  since  she  began  to  take  board- 
ers?" 

Mr.  Joyce  had  n't  heard  of  Miss  Kirk,  al- 
though he  had  seen  Miss  Loomis,  the  night  of 
the  concert,  leading  some  one  with  a  pathetic 
face,  who  seemed  blind.  And  during  the  concert 
he  had  looked  several  times  at  her.  It  was  a 
most  interesting  face.  And  it  was  of  Miss  Kirk 
that  they  were  still  talking  when  By  and  Ap- 
ollonia  saw  much  bluer  gentians  a  little  farther 
down  in  the  field  and  ran  to  get  them.  But  when 
they  came  back,  with  the  blue  flowers  bunched 
quite  up  to  their  rosy  cheeks,  Miss  Ladd  was 
talking  of  Paris  and  of  a  friend  she  had  there, 
and  of  how,  before  she  went  to  college,  she  and 
her  friend  had  ridden  all  over  those  hills.  It 
was  from  her  friend  that  Miss  Ladd  had  learned 
of  that  wonderful  field  where  they  were  pick- 
ing, and  once  he  had  made  a  little  picture  of  it 
for  her.  And  Mr.  Joyce  had  then  said  that  he 
would  give  much  for  a  picture  of  it  that  day, 
and  then  they  had  all  got  back  into  the  machine 
and  away  they  had  been  whirled  down  the  val- 
ley road,  leaving  behind  them  a  beautiful  cloud 
284 


THE   BLUE   OF  THE   GENTIAN 

of  dust,  and  workers  in  the  onion  fields  shad- 
ing their  eyes  from  the  lowering  sun  with  their 
brown,  hard  hands,  to  gaze  after  the  rich  folk 
that  had  nothing  to  do. 

When  they  again  arrived  at  Fernfield  Four 
Corners,  which  is  j  ust  half  a  mile  from  the  middle 
of  Fernfield  proper,,  the  machine  stopped  and 
Mr.  Joyce  again  alighted,  while  Miss  Ladd  ex- 
plained, in  most  conventional  tones,  that  a  little 
walk  would  do  her  lots  of  good  after  sitting  still 
all  day  in  school,  and  that  she  wanted  to  stop  at 
the  post-office  anyhow,  and  Mr.  Joyce  said  that 
he  understood  perfectly.  All  the  time,  By  was 
wondering  at  Miss  Ladd's  unreasonableness ;  for 
could  she  not  take  her  walk  after  the  end  of  the 
ride,  and  could  she  not  go  to  the  post-office  just 
as  well  in  the  automobile  ?  Indeed,  it  seemed  to 
By  that  nothing  could  be  much  nicer  than  to 
whirl  up  to  the  post-office  in  that  splendid  ve- 
hicle. But  neither  Miss  Ladd  nor  Mr.  Joyce 
seemed  to  think  that  the  post-office  could  be 
reached  so  successfully  by  machine  as  on  foot. 
So  By  found  himself  face  to  face  with  a  pain- 
ful alternative  when  Miss  Ladd  turned  and 
said,  — 

"  By,  will  you  and  Apollonia  walk  home  with 
me?  We  are  so  much  obliged  to  Mr.  Joyce, 
285 


THE   INVADERS 


are  n't  we  ?  It  has  been  a  lovely  ride,  has  n't 
it?" 

"  I  will,"  Apollonia  said  promptly,  climbing 
out  over  the  door. 

By  caught  Mr.  Joyce's  eye  and  remembered 
the  dollar. 

"So  will  I,"  he  added. 

And  then  there  was  a  gathering-up  of  books 
and  dinner-pails  and  gentians,  and  Mr.  Joyce 
was  given  a  bunch  for  his  sister,  and  then  By 
and  Apollonia  and  Miss  Ladd  seemed  to  be 
going  very  slowly  along  the  state  road,  and  Mr. 
Joyce  was  just  a  speck  in  the  distance. 

"  Give  those  to  Miss  Kirk  and  your  aunt  for 
me,  please,  Prunella,"  Olivia  said  presently, 
poking  a  bunch  of  gentians  through  Prunella's 
little  window.  "  What  a  good  time  we  had  at 
your  party ! "  Then  very  carelessly,  "  Any  letters 
in  our  box  ?  " 

"  Oh,  how  perfectly  lovely  !  "  Prunella  cried. 
"Where  on  earth  did  you  get  such  big  ones?  " 

"  Oh,  that's  what  comes  of  being  a  success- 
ful teacher !  "  Olivia  laughed.  "  Floral  offerings 
all  the  time.  By  and  Apollonia  picked  them  for 
me." 

"Aunt  Lou  and  Miss  Kirk  will  be  delighted," 
Prunella  said  with  a  gentleness  that  was  new  to 
286 


THE   BLUE   OF  THE   GENTIAN 

her.  "  We  had  a  nice  time,  too,  at  the  party. 
Were  n't  the  songs  beautiful !  Yes,  here 's  a 
letter  for  you,  Olivia,  and  a  lot  of  bulb  cata- 
logues." And  she  handed  out  Burpee  and 
Farquhar  and  Vick  and,  in  their  midst,  a  letter 
with  a  Paris  postmark. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

HONEY  FOR  MADEMOISELLE  PRUNELLE 

J.N  such  matters,  my  dear  Miss  Lou,  it  is  some- 
times necessary  to  —  to  deviate  a  little  from  the 
truth.  Not  to  lie,  you  understand.  But  to  —  to 
prevaricate,  perhaps.  The  very  derivation  of 
that  word  explains  my  meaning  :  '  praevaricari, 
to  stretch  wide  apart,  to  —  to  walk  not  quite  — 
quite  straight.'  And  in  so  delicate  a  thing  as  a 
love-affair  —  and  when  it  is  Prunella  who  is 
concerned !  And  of  course  she  has  an  inherit- 
ance, my  dear  Miss  Lou.  Not  from  her  mother's 
side,  God  knows  !  But  there 's  that  little  streak 
of  —  of  Loomis  stubbornness  to  look  out  for. 
And  then  when  we  consider  that  he  is  Slavic  — 
pure  Slavic,  I  confess  —  " 

It  was  so  that  Dr.  Britton  had  expressed  him- 
self that  very  morning  when  Miss  Hollins  had 
met  him  on  the  street  and  told  him  that  Pru- 
nella had  n't  slept  a  wink  the  night  before  and 
that  she  could  n't  be  persuaded  to  take  hypo- 
phosphites  and  drink  milk. 

"  She 's  never  still  a  minute,  Dr.  Britton  — 
just  as  nervous  as  a  witch.  And  she  won't  talk 
288 


HONEY  FOR  MADEMOISELLE  PRUNELLE 

about  it.  And  so  I  just  thought  I  'd  take  mat- 
ters into  my  own  hands  —  I've  had  to  do  it 
before  in  my  life.  And  I  have  just  about  decided 
to  go  and  call  on  that  Polish  priest  and  find 
out  the  truth  about  the  boy.  The  priest  seems 
quite  sensible  —  but  then,  of  course,  I  've  never 
talked  to  a  priest.  And  then  how  to  keep  it 
from  Prunella.  That 's  what  I  meant,  Dr.  Brit- 
ton,  when  I  asked  if  I  should  be  justified  in  — 
in  not  confining  myself  to  —  to  the  truth  if 
Prunella  should  ask  me  where  I  am  going." 

It  was  then  that  Dr.  Britton  had  -made  his 
nice  little  discrimination  and  had  derived  his 
Latin  verb.  A  Greek  or  Latin  root  was  to  him 
a  deciding  point.  And  so,  fortified  with  etymo- 
logy as  well  as  with  theology,  Miss  Hollins  de- 
liberately told  Prunella  that  she  was  going  to 
see  Mary  Ladd  and  sallied  forth  to  see  Father 
Zujewski.  It  made  her  conscience  a  little  easier 
to  go  the  long  way  round  by  Mary  Ladd's  and 
run  in  a  minute  to  leave  a  sponge  cake  and  tell 
her  how  beautiful  Olivia  had  been  at  the  tea- 
party,  and  hope  that  some  day  very  soon  they 
could  have  a  long  day's  visit  together.  But  it 
had  not  increased  her  peace  of  mind  for  Mary 
to  declare  that  times  were  too  radically  changed 
for  old  friends  ever  to  meet  in  the  same  old 
289 


THE  INVADERS 


way,  and  that,  for  herself,  she  never  dared  look 
ahead.  Olivia  was  doing  all  the  looking  ahead 
and  the  planning  and  she  was  quite  out  of  the 
running.  Mary's  thin  white  hands  with  the  worn 
gold  thimble,  darning  thin  old  napkins  out  of 
the  very  same  workbasket  she  had  carred  to  sew- 
ing society  when  she  was  a  girl,  with  the  same 
tomato  pincushion  and  the  same  heart-shaped 
emery  and  the  same  brown  morocco  spool-case 
—  those  hands  were  disturbing  enough  to  Miss 
Hollins  in  their  pathos  without  her  twinge  of 
conscience  when  Mrs.  Ladd  said,  in  parting,  — 

"  Why  can't  you  sit  longer  now,  Lou  ?  I  'm 
all  alone.  Olivia's  days  in  school  leave  me  much 
alone.  Where  are  you  bound  for  in  this  direc- 
tion, anyhow?"  And  then  a  flicker  of  Mrs. 
Ladd's  youth  brushed  her  lips  in  a  faint  smile. 
"  The  only  places  beyond  here  belong  to  un- 
married men  —  Dr.  Britton  and  that  Polish 
priest.  It  does  n't  look  well,  Lou." 

Miss  Hollins  matched  the  youthful  smile  in 
her  quick  color.  "  But  you  see,  Mary,  if  you  're 
in  the  cake  business  and  eggs  are  scarce,  you 
never  know  where  you  may  have  to  go.  And  I 
just  must  have  at  least  two  dozen  to-day."  That 
was  certainly  not  a  lie.  She  must  have  the  two 
dozen  before  night,  and  she  was  n't  sure  Pru- 
290 


HONEY  FOR  MADEMOISELLE  PRUNELLE 

nella  could  get  them.  "  Good-bye,  Mary  !  I  'm 
going  to  set  the  day  for  the  visit  and  you  've 
got  to  come." 

"  Good-bye !  You  're  a  dear,  Lou,  anyhow  !  " 
Mrs.  Ladd  called  after  her,  standing  in  the 
doorway  in  the  clear,  keen  sunshine  and  shiver- 
ing a  little. 

And  then  Miss  Hollins  heard  the  door  close 
as  she  went  out  of  the  gate  and  on  down  the 
road  to  Father  Zujewski's.  She  walked  rapidly 
and  paid  no  heed  to  the  asters  like  smoke  in  the 
pastures,  and  the  watchet  of  the  hills  in  the 
September  haze.  She  was  too  busy  arguing  with 
her  conscience  and  planning  for  the  interview 
that  was  so  dreaded  and  so  imminent.  But  it  is 
no  easy  matter  to  plan  what  we  shall  say  to,  and 
how  we  shall  behave  with,  a  person  who  is  noth- 
ing more  than  a  name  to  us,  especially  when  the 
name  is  not  very  pleasant-sounding  or  very  pleas- 
antly suggestive.  So  Miss  Hollins  went  on  pic- 
turing herself  as  addressing,  with  reserved  yet 
Christian  kindness,  either  a  fat  monk  with  a  red 
nose,  and  a  glass  of  wine  in  his  hand,  such  as 
she  had  seen  pictured  on  smoking-sets  for  jovial 
gentlemen,  or  a  tall,  sinister,  dark-browed  man 
holding  an  uplifted  crucifix  in  one  hand,  and 
pointing  with  the  other  to  an  Inquisitional  pile 
291 


THE  INVADERS 


of  burning  fagots,  a  figure  such  as  she  had 
trembled  to  contemplate  in  the  history-book  of 
her  Academy  days.  Of  the  two,  she  at  once  de- 
cided that  she  would  find  it  easier  to  discuss  the 
delicate  matter  with  the  first ;  then,  her  temper- 
ance principles  made  the  second  seem  infinitely 
preferable. 

However,  just  as  she  left  the  last  of  Dr.  Brit- 
ton's  evergreen  hedge  behind  her,  and  the  small, 
brown  frame  church  with  the  cross-tipped  bel- 
fry came  into  view,  flanked  by  the  brown  frame 
rectory  in  its  clump  of  yellowing  apple  and  crab 
and  plum  and  cherry  trees,  with  its  ragged 
brown  buckwheat  field  and  its  pile  of  pumpkins 
against  the  fence,  all  her  preparations  of  the 
gospel  of  peace  were  arrested  and  scattered  by 
the  most  extraordinary  of  noises.  Had  she  ex- 
pected any  noise  in  so  unexplored  a  spot,  it  would 
have  been  the  "  droning  chant  of  Latin  hymns," 
as  the  history  had  expressed  it,  from  the  church, 
or,  remembering  Stefan  and  his  intimacy  with 
the  priest,  the  most  lovely  and  appealing  of  har- 
monies from  the  rectory.  The  din  that  so  amazed 
her,  however,  proceeded  from  the  rear  of  the 
house  in  the  shade  of  the  fruit  trees,  and  was 
of  so  fearful  and  barbaric  a  character  that  recol- 
lections of  the  Tartars  and  their  invasions 
292 


HONEY  FOR  MADEMOISELLE  PRUNELLE 

flashed  into  her  mind.  It  was  the  clangor  of 
iron  upon  tin,  of  discordant  bells,  of  hoarse 
voices  yelling  "Whoa!  Whoa!"  and  it  was  ac- 
companied by  a  thick  blue  smoke  that  rose  in 
clouds  among  the  tree-tops. 

Miss  Hollins  hesitated.  Probably  it  was  some 
sort  of  outdoor  service  and  her  presence  would 
be  embarrassing  and  her  visit  ineffectual.  But 
she  would  never  dare  to  make  the  effort  again. 
She  pushed  the  little  gate  wider  open  and 
stepped  in  upon  the  garden  path  with  its  border 
of  cornflowers  and  snapdragon  and  mignon- 
ette in  an  overgrown,  half-frosted  tangle.  Poor 
little  Prunella !  It  was  n't  much  to  do,  after  all, 
when  her  happiness  lay  in  its  issue.  And  what- 
ever the  strange  rites,  Dr.  Britton  spoke  highly 
of  the  man ! 

Just  as  her  skirts  brushed  the  last  of  the 
mignonette  and  she  stood  upon  the  little  stoop 
preparing  to  ring  the  doorbell,  the  din  grew 
even  wilder,  the  smoke  thicker,  and  around  the 
corner  of  the  house  rushed  what  to  Miss  Hol- 
lins's  nearsighted  eyes  and  excited  fancy  ap- 
peared to  be  an  officiating  priest.  He  was  heav- 
ily veiled  and  thickly  gloved  and  with  a  strange 
weapon  he  seemed  to  be  beating  at  imaginary 
aerial  foes.  Reports  in  missionary  journals  flashed 
293 


THE   INVADERS 


instantly  into  her  thought.  But  at  the  sight  of 
her,  the  man  had  come  to  a  sudden  halt,  and  by 
the  time  she  had  fumbled  for  her  glasses  in  her 
little  black  bag,  he  had  approached  and  was 
saying  in  a  quiet,  pleasant  voice,  and  in  the 
slowest  and  most  barbarous  of  English,  —  "  You 
will  forgif  us?  Ze  bees.  Zey  swarm  all  sudden 
—  up  in  ze  tree.  Ze  boy  an'  I,  we  mek  big  fight. 
You  will  come  in  an'  be  so  good  an'  wait  fife 
minutes?" 

Miss  Hollins  laughed  and  got  on  her  glasses. 

"Dear  me!  Of  course!  I  never  thought  of 
bees.  And  swarming  now?  I  thought  June  was 
the  time  for  swarming." 

He  held  his  Dixie  bee  brush  gingerly  with  its 
half-dozen  crawling  bees.  "June  iss  ze  time. 
But  whe^  ze  summer  it  mek  mistake  an'  stay 
so  long,  zey  mek  mistake,  too.  Zey  sink  June 
here  once  more  again." 

He  laughed  genially.  Through  the  veil  she 
could  see  his  dark  bright  eyes  and  his  slow  smile. 

"  It  iss  not  hard  to  mek  mistake  an'  be  like 
young  again,"  he  added,  "  when  ze  wevver  it 
mek  June." 

Of  course,  he  could  n't  be  the  priest,  she  was 
thinking.  He  fitted  into  none  of  her  concep- 
tions of  priests.  He  was  neither  fat  nor  lean, 
294 


HONEY  FOE  MADEMOISELLE  PRUNELLE 

nor,  as  far  as  she  could  read  through  his  bee 
veil  and  his  manner,  sinister  nor  threatening. 

"  Oh,  I  see ! "  she  said.  "  I  don't  know  a  thing 
about  bees.  I  'm  deadly  afraid  of  them  and  all 
other  bugs.  Then  Father  Zujewski  is  not  at 
home?" 

The  beeman  laughed  aloud  heartily.  "  Zat  iss 
funny.  I  am  Fazzer  Zujewski.  An'  my  bees, 
zey  will  not  sting  you,  if  you  will  like  to  come 
and  see  ze  fun." 

In  her  amazement  she  did  follow  him  round 
the  house  into  the  sweet,  sun-flecked  orchard, 
with  its  rows  of  white  hives  on  the  close-cut 
grass.  And  there  she  beheld  another  man, 
younger  and  slimmer  and  more  agile,  and  like- 
wise veiled  and  gloved,  perched  in  the  big  cherry 
tree,  in  the  cloud  of  smoke  ascending  from  the 
Corneil  smoker  carefully  tended  by  a  bee-acolyte 
at  the  foot  of  the  tree,  the  bee-acolyte  being  an 
old  woman  with  a  little  red  shawl  pinned  over 
her  head.  The  barbaric  clangor  seemed  to  be 
over,  but  on  the  grass  under  the  cherry  tree 
lay  a  large  dinner-bell,  a  tin  dishpan,  a  tin  pail, 
an  iron  spoon,  and  a  bulky  potato-masher.  No 
doubt  the  old  woman  and  the  young  man  in 
the  tree  and  the  veiled  priest  had  all  been  per- 
formers in  the  bee  symphony. 
295 


THE  INVADERS 


Miss  Hollins  sat  down  upon  a  wheelbarrow  at 
a  discreet  distance  and  lifted  up  her  skirts.  It 
was  well  to  be  prepared  for  flight.  But  no  pre- 
cautions seemed  necessary;  for  the  old  woman 
was  gathering  up  the  dishpan  and  the  bell  and 
the  pail  and  the  spoon  and  the  potato-masher,  and 
retiring  behind  the  woodbine  that  covered  the 
back  porch,  and  Father  Zujewski  stood  calmly 
under  the  cherry  tree  conversing  in  a  strange 
tongue  with  the  veiled  young  man  in  the  yel- 
lowing branches.  In  another  few  minutes,  the 
young  man  descended  with  a  box  of  bees  in 
his  hand,  and  dumped  them  on  a  white  cloth 
spread  in  front  of  an  open  hive,  and  then  stood 
with  Father  Zujewski  watching  the  little  revo- 
lutionists crawling  peacefully  back  into  their 
quarters. 

So  serene  and  sunny,  and  so  fragrant  of  ripe 
apples  and  clover  and  catnip  and  mint  and  late 
garden  sweetness  was  the  orchard  that  Miss 
Hollins  began  to  lose  all  fear  of  the  interview 
and  to  dream  a  little  of  nothing  at  all,  as  the 
late  summer  days  trick  us  into  doing,  when  sud- 
denly and  quite  dramatically  she  was  recalled  to 
her  mission.  The  bees,  evidently,  were  all  safely 
housed,  for  the  two  beemen  were  turning  away 
from  the  hives,  and  coming  across  the  grass  to- 
296 


HONEY  FOR  MADEMOISELLE  PRUNELLE 

wards  her.  So  occupied  and  interested  was  she 
in  looking  at  the  unveiled  priest,  before  whom 
she  was  so  soon  to  lay  her  case,  that  she  was 
wholly  unprepared  when  the  younger  man  took 
off  both  veil  and  hat  and  stood  revealed  before 
her. 

"Zis  young  man  you  will  know,"  Father 
Zujewski  was  saying,  with  a  little  smile.  "  He 
iss  my  friend,  Stefan  Posadowski,  who  has  so 
beautifully  played  for  us.  He  iss  a-  good  boy." 

And  then,  when  Miss  Hollins  held  out  her 
hand  to  the  young  man  so  well  recommended, 
he  did  what  at  home,  in  his  own  land,  he  had 
been  taught  to  do  on  greeting  a  lady  who  is 
beautiful  or  good  or  wise  or  of  high  rank ;  he 
bent  over  her  hand  and  kissed  it  with  a  fervor 
that  made  Miss  Hollins's  heart  skip  a  beat  and 
her  cheeks  grow  a  pink  that  was  almost  as 
youthful  as  Prunella's.  Then  he  looked  very 
frankly  and  directly  into  her  eyes  and  stam- 
mered, — 

"  Fazzer  Zujewski,  he  tell  you  about  me.  But 
I,  myself,  I  will  tell  how  much  I  lofe  ze  beau- 
tiful lady  who  iss  your  niece.  I  will  lofe  her 
like"  —  he  flushed  all  over  his  thin,  clear-cut, 
olive  face  —  "  like  she  —  she  ze  best  friend  of 
—  of  ze  Madonna." 

297 


THE   INVADERS 


Tears  blurred  Miss  Hollins's  glasses.  Pru- 
nella glimmered  in  a  halo  caught  from  the  pure 
passion  of  her  lover's  words. 

"  Prunella  is  everything  I  have  in  the  world," 
she  said. 

And  then  Stefan  went  away  over  the  grass 
into  the  house  without  another  word,  and 
Father  Zujewski  repeated,  "  He  iss  a  good  boy, 
zat  Stefan.  His  heart  iss  pure  an'  so  God  let 
him  mek  gret  music.  An'  will  you  not  come 
into  ze  house  where  we  can  spick  togezzer?  " 

So  she  followed  him  into  the  rectory,  with  its 
smell  of  baking  bread,  and  its  sunshine  through 
uncurtained  windows  on  bare,  well-scoured  floors 
with  brilliantly  ugly  rugs  of  ingrain  carpet, 
and  into  a  meagrely  furnished  little  office  with 
a  great  ivy  vine  running  around  the  white 
walls,  around  the  big  black  crucifix  over  the 
desk  and  the  pictures  of  St.  Stanislaus  and  John 
Sobieski  and  Leo  XIII. 

She  began  at  once,  when  he  had  seated  her 
at  the  window  by  the  starting-point  of  all  the 
green  festooning,  the  ivy  pot,  and  seated  him- 
self opposite  her  under  the  crucifix. 

"  You  will  be  surprised  at  my  coming  when 
you  know  why  I  have  come,"  she  said,  going 
at  once  to  her  point.  "  Your  friend  Stefan  has 
298 


HONEY  FOR  MADEMOISELLE  PRUNELLE 

disturbed  my  niece  Prunella.  We  are  quite 
alone,  Prunella  and  I,  and  she  has  always  talked 
everything  over  with  me.  But,  you  see,  she  has 
never  had  a  —  a  —  " 

"Alofer?"  he  finished  gently.  "Of  course, 
zen  it  is  different.  Zey  must  know,  ze  muzzers, 
wizout  ze  young  girls  to  spick,  like  ze  —  ze 
flowers  under  ze  snow." 

"Of  course,  and  I  do  understand,  but  then, 
Prunella  is —  is  peculiar.  She  has  always  been 
proud  and  independent  and  has  laughed  at  — 
at  love  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  And  of  course 
your  young  friend  is  foreign.  We  know  nothing 
about  him,  and  his  people  are —  are  not  in  the 
least  like  us.  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  Prunella 
is  in  love  with  him.  But  she's  been  changed 
and  unlike  herself  ever  since  the  concert." 

He  sat  listening  with  the  little  smile  of  one 
who  could  very  well  understand. 

"  And  it  just  makes  me  anxious,"  she  finished 
quickly.  "I  must  know  something  about  the 
young  man  so  —  so  that  when  —  when  I  do  talk 
to  Prunella  I  shall  know  what  to  say.  With 
Prunella  you  must  have  facts,  and  even  then 
she  '11  —  she  '11  do  as  she  pleases.  She 's  like  her 
father." 

He  got  up  and  opened  his  desk  and  took  out 
299 


THE   INVADERS 


a  small  miniature-case  that  seemed  to  have  been 
placed  there  ready  to  his  hand. 

"It  iss  ze  muzzer  of  Stefan,"  he  said, opening 
it  and  handing  it  to  her.  "  It  will  not  mek  you 
to  be  afraid  —  zat  face." 

And  truly  it  did  not  make  her  in  the  least 
afraid,  that  fine,  clear-cut,  dark  face  that  was  so 
like  and  yet  unlike  Stefan's,  under  its  garland 
of  small  white  roses,  with  the  filmy  scarf  around 
the  white  shoulders.  The  eyes  and  the  delicate 
droop  of  the  mouth  would  have  allayed  any 
fears  as  to  what  inheritance  she  had  left  him. 

"  She  was  ze  sister  of  Wieniaski,  name  Alexia, 
an'  one  great,  wonderful  voice  God  gafe  her. 
An'  she  sing  in  ze  church  in  ze  little  village  on 
ze  Vistula,  an'  a  gret  lady  hear  her  an'  she  tek 
her  to  Varsovie  an'  she  study  much  an'  sing  an' 
sing  all  ofer  —  ze  Czar  hear  her  an'  ze  Kaiser 
an'  all  ofer  she  sing.  An'  always  in  ze  church 
she  lof e  much  to  sing.  Always  was  she  pure  an' 
good,  an'  so  iss  Stefan.  An'  zen  in  Petersburg 
comes  Nicholas  Posadowski  an'  he  lofe  her  an' 
she  lofe  him,  an'  he  a  gret  prince  in  his  country. 
An'  Alexia  say,  (  See  here,  I  will  nefer  go  wiz 
you  wizout  we  are  all  married.  I  good  girl,  an' 
if  I  lofe,  always  I  lofe,  but  I  will  be  married 
else  I  go  not.'  An'  zey  were  married.  Wien- 
300 


HONEY  FOR  MADEMOISELLE  PRUNELLE 

iaski  he  has  ze  papers  to  show.  An'  ze  family  of 
ze  prince  zey  were  crazy,  an'  zey  say  it  iss  not 
marriage.  An'  in  two  year  ze  prince  he  die  an' 
Alexia  an'  Stefan  are  left,  an'  Alexia,  she  die 
because  her  heart  break,  an'  ze  nuns  in  Var- 
sovie,  zey  tek  little  Stefan.  An'  he  stay  by  ze 
nuns  till  Wieniaski  he  hear  an'  he  come  an'  tek 
him  an*  bring  him  here  to  America.  So  I  haf 
tole  you  ze  story  of  Stefan.  An'  you  will  see 
here,  please."  And  he  handed  her  another  case, 
and  on  the  purple  velvet  lay  the  gleaming 
thing  that  she  had  seen  the  night  of  the  concert 
on  the  lapel  of  Stefan's  coat.  "  It  iss  ze  war 
medal  of  Prince  Nicholas  Posadowski,"  he  fin- 
ished, a  little  proudly.  And  as  he  finished,  in 
the  next  room  the  son  of  the  prince  began  to  play 
a  Polish  folk-song,  as  if  to  remind  those  who 
heard  that  his  mother  had  come  of  the  folk. 

Miss  Hollins  drew  a  very  long  breath.  It  was 
infinitely  more  astonishing  than  she  had  ex- 
pected. It  was  quite  as  nice  and  romantic  as  any- 
thing in  Mary  J.  Holmes's  novels.  What  would 
Dr.  Britton  say  to  it  all?  And  Olivia  and  Mary 
Ladd  ?  And  to  think  that  her  little  hard-work- 
ing Prunella  was  the  heroine  of  it  all !  But  then 
as  a  family  they  were  entitled  to  it. 

"  Now  you  fill  not  afraid  ?  "  he  was  going  on 
301 


THE   INVADERS 


softly.  "  But  best  it  iss  that  Stefan  iss  a  good 
boy.  To  be  rich  it  iss  much  easy  zan  —  zan  to  be 
unashamed  before  —  before  angels.  And  now 
he  will  go  away  to  study  to  his  own  land.  I  haf 
spoken  much  wiz  Wieniaski,  an'  he  haf  much 
onions  an'  he  say  '  yes/  an'  Mrs.  Wieniaski  she 
un'erstan'.  An'  before  he  go  if  —  if  —  "  he  hes- 
itated and  colored  faintly  under  his  thick  olive 
skin.  "  I  fill  sure  you  need  not  to  haf  fear.  An' 
it  will  keep  Stefan  to  be  a  good  boy." 

Miss  Hollins  colored,  too,  faintly,  as  she  got 
up  and  held  out  her  hand.  "Now,"  she  said 
firmly,  "  now  I  shall  put  it  all  into  God's  hands. 
It's  been  taken  out  of  mine.  And  I  thank  you." 

"It  iss  a  good  place,  in  God's  hands,"  he  an- 
swered as  he  returned  her  hand-clasp  heartily. 
"  An'  sometimes  our  prayers  a  long  time  zey 
seem  to  stay  zare  —  in  God's  hands.  But  always 
zey  are  safe.  An'  now  you  will  haf  a  little 
honey.  It  iss  ze  food  for  young  ladies  because 
only  of  flowers  it  iss  made." 

When  he  had  gone  out,  Miss  Hollins  stood 
staring  absently  at  the  crucifix.  In  the  next 
room  Stefan  was  playing  softly  as  if  he  were 
telling  the  piano  many  secret  things.  Leaf  shad- 
ows flickered  on  the  bare  floor.  It  was  a  large 
moment. 

302 


HONEY  FOR  MADEMOISELLE  PRUNELLE 


"  To  hive  bees  it  iss  much  easy  zan  to  guide 
ze  young  hearts,"  he  said,  coming  in  with  a 
small  basket  filled  with  golden  honeycomb  in  a 
nest  of  grape  leaves.  "  Ze  bees,  zey  know  always 
what  iss  good  to  mek  ze  honey  an'  what  iss  not 
good.  It  iss  not  always  so  wiz  ze  young  peoble. 
Much  wisdom  my  bees  gif  to  me  to  teach  my 
peoble.  An'  Mademoiselle  Prunelle  —  iss  it  not 
so  zat  you  call  her  ?  —  she  iss  like  a  bee.  She 
has  know  what  mek  good  honey." 

An  hour  later  Mademoiselle  Prunelle  was 
spreading  the  honey  on  a  slice  of  bread,  twisting 
it  round  and  round  in  a  golden  rope  on  the 
spoon. 

"  And  you  got  it  from  a  Polander  on  the  way 
to  Mrs.  Ladd's,  Aunt  Lou?"  she  said,  biting 
into  the  lusciousness.  "  I  think  I  know  the  very 
one  you  mean.  Drives  a  bony  horse  in  a  little 
red  wagon  and  has  a  bristly  beard  ?  Peddles 
chickens,  too.  He  lives  out  at  Fernfield  Four 
Corners  and  has  dozens  of  children.  But  it's 
bully  honey,  anyhow." 

"Probably,"  Miss  Hollins  said  vaguely 
through  the  little  window  in  the  pantry.  "  Now, 
Prunella,  I'm  going  to  wash  these  dishes. 
You've  got  to  keep  your  hands  out  of  the 
dish-water." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

"  ME    HEART    SENT    ME    FLYIN'  " 

IT  was  very  late,  almost  midnight,  and  the  pro- 
blems in  improper  fractions  seemed  endless. 
Olivia  was  wondering  why  in  the  world  she  had 
given  them  so  many  problems  at  once  when  she 
knew  she  would  have  to  work  each  one  out  in 
order  to  be  intelligent  upon  the  subject.  If  it 
had  been  calculus  or  trigonometry !  But  im- 
proper fractions  lined  off  in  interminable  little 
pens  in  the  painstaking  little  figures!  When 
she  came  to  By  Smith's  paper  she  pondered  it, 
smiling. 

"  I  love  you  and  so  does  Apollonia,"  By  had 
carefully  printed  down  the  sides  of  his  pens  of 
fraction  problems. 

They  were  her  ardent  lovers,  the  two  child- 
ren, with  their  offerings  of  last  flowers  and 
best  apples  and  little  gourds  and  silky  red 
onions.  To  them,  life  out  of  school  meant  no- 
thing but  the  search  for  means  of  passionate 
expression.  Latest  had  been  Apollonia's  dried 
butterfly  with  its  gorgeous  yellow  and  black 
wings. 

304 


ME  HEART   SENT  ME  FLYIN' 

The  fire  was  low  and  she  stirred  the  coals 
into  a  little  flame.  She  had  brought  her  work 
from  her  father's  desk  in  the  far  corner  by  the 
window,  and  sat  near  the  hearth  in  her  little- 
girl  rocker,  with  her  papers  near  her  knee.  The 
clock  out  in  [the  cold  hall  struck  twelve.  Mrs. 
Ladd  had  gone  up  long  ago  with  her  little  lamp 
and  her  nightly,  "Don't  work  too  late,  dear, 
and  get  all  tired  out." 

"I  love  you  and  so  does  Apollonia,"  her 
thought  still  echoed  even  after  she  had  put  the 
coveted  "  100 "  upon  the  paper  and  finished 
the  little  pile  that  lay  under  it.  Truly,  school 
was  illuminated  by  the  love  that  looked  out  of 
the  childish  eyes.  There  was  an  ecstasy  even 
in  improper  fractions  when  they  were  added 
and  subtracted  and  multiplied  and  divided  with 
such  hot  childish  love.  And  then  —  and  then 
—  after  school !  Even  there,  in  the  utter  lone- 
liness and  quiet  of  the  old  study,  even  in  the 
highly  inadequate  light  from  the  far  lamp  and 
the  dying  fire,  with  only  maps  of  state  and 
county,  and  engravings  of  prosy  judges  and 
statesmen  to  look  down  upon  her, —  even  there 
her  heart  beat  fast  and  her  cheeks  burned. 
After  school  —  countless  times  —  all  during  the 
blue  of  October  —  in  the  sweet  Indian  summer 
305 


THE   INVADERS 


that  glorified  November  —  even  now,  in  the 
strangely  gentle  days  of  early  December  — 
there  had  been  the  automobile.  It  had  all  hap- 
pened as  quietly,  as  inevitably,  as  her  going  to 
school  in  the  morning,  that  he  should  overtake 
her  on  her  way  home  in  the  afternoon,  and,  after 
stowing  away  two  or  more  enraptured  child- 
ren on  the  back  seat,  whirl  her  off  through 
pale-gold  cornfields  with  their  yellow  blotches 
of  pumpkins  and  squashes,  past  purplish  patches 
of  beets,  past  garnered  onion  fields  with  their 
long  windrows  of  shimmering  opalescent  onions, 
away  to  the  far  hills  that  looked  so  low  and  near 
in  the  afternoon  light.  And  sometimes  so  far 
in  the  hills  did  they  find  themselves  that  a  big 
red  hunter's  moon  hung  in  the  black  tree-tops 
on  Toby  and  gilded  the  watering-trough  at 
Fernfield  Four  Corners  when  they  slowed  down 
at  the  familiar  stopping-place.  And  yet  she 
could  swear  that  they  had  been  wholly  imper- 
sonal in  their  talk,  those  two  on  the  front  seat. 
Wholly  agricultural  had  been  the  purpose  of 
those  joyous  rides,  wholly  in  accordance  with 
the  earnest  recommendations  of  the  professors 
in  the  Agricultural  College  two  months  before. 
And  they  had  vigorously  discussed  agricultural 
problems,  slowing  up  to  see  the  immediate  and 
306 


ME  HEART  SENT  ME  FLYIN' 

practical  treatment  of  the  fields  so  recently 
harvested,  in  the  ploughing  and  the  fertilizing 
with  the  tobacco  stems  of  the  recently  garnered 
crop;  peering  into  the  odorous  dusk  of  onion 
storehouses  and  doing  problems  to  calculate  cost 
of  storehouses  and  fertilizers  and  boxes  for  pack- 
ing. Sometimes,  the  problems  were  passed  on  to 
the  radiant  ones  munching  stolen  apples  on  the 
back  seat,  and  the  other  two  would  go  into  the 
stubbly  fields  where  had  grown  the  tent-tobacco, 
and  where  shreds  of  the  tent  still  fluttered  from 
the  lines  and  poles,  and  there  they  would  fill 
their  palms  with  soil  and  crumble  it  and  compare 
it ;  and  then,  presently,  when  they  had  ridden  on 
a  little  way,  there  would  be  a  stop  at  a  brook 
and  Miss  Ladd  would  spring  out  and  run  down 
under  the  naked,  shivering  little  birches  and 
alders  to  wash  her  hands.  And  one  day  she  had 
not  gone  alone ;  his  hands,  too,  needed  washing 
after  the  loam  of  the  fields.  And  —  and  —  that 
was  the  only  day  that  he  had  forgotten !  He  had 
stood  on  one  side  of  the  brook  in  the  clear  gold 
of  the  sunshine,  holding  his  hand  to  her  on  the 
other  as  she  had  risen  from  the  little  pool,  and 
he  had  reddened  as  vividly  as  the  swamp  maple 
behind  them.  And  with  a  laugh  in  his  eyes  that 
was  yet  full  of  something  like  sadness,  he  had 
307 


THE  INVADERS 


said,  in  a  very  low  tone  considering  the  fields 
all  around  them,  — 

"  In  my  country,  to  clasp  hands  across  water 
—  do  you —  do  you  know  what  it  is  meaning?" 

And  then  she  had  burned  with  quick  anger 
and  had  turned  away  and  got  back  to  her  seat 
in  silence,  and  going  home  there  had  been  no 
talk  even  of  the  heavy  wagons  loaded  with  bags 
of  onions  that  made  the  automobile  swing  so 
far  out  of  the  road,  and  she  had  bitten  her  lips 
and  vowed  never  again,  never  again  to  go  with 
him.  And  at  Fernfield  Four  Corners  she  had 
not  looked  at  him  when  little  Stefanya  and  Leo 
had  turned  with  her  away  from  him  down  the 
village  street.  But  she  had  gone  again  the  next 
day.  It  was  better  not  to  notice  his  foolishness. 

Yes,  she  could  swear  to  it  that,  except  for 
that  day,  never  once  had  there  been  said  any- 
thing that  Dacre  might  not  have  overheard  — 
and  Aileen.  Somehow  he  had  heard  about 
Dacre,  and  she  had  guessed  about  Aileen  from 
what  Bride  had  said  that  day  at  the  tea,  and 
then,  too,  there  was  that  strange  silver  ring  that 
he  wore.  It  was  the  fisherman's  betrothal  ring. 
He  had  called  it  a  Claddagh  ring  and  she  had 
looked  it  up  in  the  encyclopedia  at  the  library 
and  knew  all  about  it.  She  had  told  him  that  she 
308 


ME   HEART   SENT  ME   FLYIN' 

knew  all  about  it,  and  he  had  got  quite  red,  and 
had  said  that  perhaps  she  was  too  clever  in  her  in- 
ferences. And  of  course  they  both  understood. 
Their  side  of  the  affair  was  quite  clear  and  safe. 
And  then  they  had  been  careful  about  Mrs. 
Clabby  and  Prunella.  Fernfield  Four  Corners 
had  always  been  the  end  of  the  ride. 

But  there  was  another  side  to  the  affair ;  in- 
deed, there  were  several  other  sides.  In  the  first 
place,  her  own  respect  for  herself  was  humiliat- 
ingly  on  the  decrease.  She  had  gone  back  on 
her  own  principle,  her  own  best  judgment,  her 
proudest  sense  of  family  and  tradition.  But  she 
had  had  the  satisfaction  of  telling  him  that  at 
first  she  had  hated  him,  and  then  he  had  con- 
fessed that  at  first  he  had  hated  and  feared  her. 
And  she  had  hated  him  heartily.  She  remem- 
bered that  first  day  in  the  town  hall,  that  day 
at  the  Major's  funeral  when  she  had  so  loathed 
him,  and  had  prayed  that  he  and  the  other  in- 
vaders would  be  driven  out,  those  days  in  the 
Agricultural  College  when  she  had  barely  en- 
dured having  him  in  front  of  her,  and  then  had 
hated  herself  when  she  found  that  she  was  en- 
during him,  even  tolerating  him  and  not  avoid- 
ing him.  And  then,  in  the  second  place,  there 
had  been  the  fear  of  what  her  mother  was 
309 


THE   INVADERS 


thinking.  Of  course,  she  had  told  her  mother 
nothing,  except  that  when  on  the  rainy  days 
Mr.  Joyce  had  brought  her  home,  she  had  said, 
lightly.  "  Was  n't  it  nice  of  him,  Mamma,  to 
bring  me  home !  "  And  Mrs.  Ladd  had  looked 
at  her  with  a  little  smile  and  answered,  "It  is 
very  nice  for  him  that  you  should  permit  him  to 
bring  you  home,  dear.  Don't  let  him  be  falling 
in  love  with  you.  You  are  n't  that  kind,  Olivia !  " 
And  then  she  had  answered,  again  very  lightly, 
"How  foolish,  Mamma!  He's  engaged  —  his 
sister  said  so  —  to  an  Irish  beauty,  whose  pic- 
ture hangs  in  the  castle  of  the  Duchess  of  Con- 
naught."  Oh,  there  was  nothing  she  dreaded 
more  than  her  mother's  delicate  scorn !  And 
now  there  were  two  things  for  her  mother  to 
scorn,  but  with  a  very  different  kind  of  scorn. 
If  she  should  come  to  know  about  Dacre  before 
the  —  the  right  time  —  and  how  far  and  how 
dim  seemed  that  right  time !  —  she  would  die  of 
scorn  for  Olivia's  having  been  a  fool,  and  she 
would  shrug  her  thin,  graceful  shoulders  and 
give  a  bitter  little  laugh,  and  say,  "  Why,  my 
dear,  I  'm  not  in  the  least  surprised.  Even  you 
could  not  conquer  heredity."  But  if  she  should 
come  to  know  of  the  automobile  and  the  in- 
vader's entrance  into  her  proud  stronghold,  she 
310 


ME   HEART   SENT  ME   FLYIN' 

would  say  but  little  —  perhaps,  "  Of  course, 
it  is  hard  for  a  girl  to  have  none  of  her  own 
class  around  her.  But  then,  somehow,  Olivia, 
I  did  count  at  least  upon  your  discrimina- 
tion !  " 

And  then  the  other  side,  the  Dacre  side. 
That  was  where  ghosts  walked.  Always  there 
the  old  Major's  cold  blue  eyes  looked  at  her  and 
his  high  old  voice  cried,  "  One  generation  of 
ruin  is  enough.  Make  a  man  of  him  if  you  can.'* 
And  she  was  trying  to  make  a  man  of  him,  al- 
though as  yet  she  had  not  had  the  courage  to 
"  ask  old  Joyce  about  the  life  insurance."  The 
process  of  making  a  man  of  Dacre  had  seemed  a 
very  different  matter  in  the  sweet  June  weather, 
when  she  was  flushed  and  confident  after  her 
college  triumphs,  and  still  tingling  with  the 
pain  of  telling  him  to  go  away  after  all  those 
long  years  of  boy  and  girl  sweethearting,  and 
when  he  had  been  there  in  all  his  gay  master- 
fulness and  his  beauty  and  his  faith  in  her  faith 
in  him.  Then  the  process  had  seemed  as  sure 
as  that  the  old  fields  would  yield  great  crops 
if  they  were  given  their  chance.  But  now ! 
What  was  the  matter  with  her  ?  She  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands  and  tried  to  think  it  out,  the 
Dacre  side.  What  was  the  matter  with  him  that 
311 


THE   INVADERS 


had  not  always  been  the  matter?  Was  it  that 
she  was  getting  her  measure  of  a  man  ? 

And  then  there  was  still  another  side,  the 
bitter,  delicate  side  !  In  June  the  mortgage 
would  be  due.  Suppose  the  old  fields  should  n't 
make  a  good  showing  !  Suppose  the  tobacco  she 
was  counting  upon  from  Wyzocki  for  her  big- 
gest money  —  suppose  it  should  n't  be  a  suc- 
cess !  Suppose  it  — 

And  as  she  pondered,  Dacre's  setter  whined  at 
the  door,  and  she  got  up  sleepily  to  let  him  in. 
He  had  come  down  from  her  threshold  where  he 
spent  the  night,  probably  to  see  why  she  had 
not  come  to  bed.  As  she  opened  the  door  into 
the  cold  hall  and  he  ran  in,  a  noise  upstairs 
startled  her.  Could  anything  be  the  matter  that 
her  mother  was  up?  She  could  hear  bottles 
moving  and  closet  doors  opening.  Then  a  long 
dark  shadow  fell  across  the  ceiling  in  the  up- 
stairs hall.  More  bottles  rattled  and  one  fell 
with  a  little  crash. 

"  Mamma  !  Mamma  !  "  she  cried.  "  Is  any- 
thing the  matter?  Are  you  ill?"  It  was  all 
quite  plain  now.  Her  mother  was  looking  for 
something  in  the  medicine-chest  in  the  upper 
hall.  "  Are  you  ill,  Mamma  ?  " 

The  light  upstairs  wavered.  "  The  ginger, 
312 


Olivia,"  came  down  faintly.  "  It  hurts  me  to  — 
to  breathe — " 

"  Yes,  Mamma  !  All  right !  I  'm  coming," 
she  cried.  Thank  God  the  tea-kettle  was  on,  and 
if  the  kitchen  fire  had  n't  gone  out !  She  caught 
up  the  lamp  and  ran  out  to  see.  In  the  bottom 
of  the  kettle  there  was  a  lukewarm  cupful.  She 
poured  it  out  and  fled  upstairs. 

Mrs.  Ladd  had  gone  back  to  her  room  and 
sat  shivering  on  the  side  of  the  high  old  four- 
poster,  very  gray  and  small  in  her  dark  flannel 
wrapper. 

"  Why,  Mamma  dear !  Why  did  n't  you  call 
before  ?  "  Olivia  cried.  "  There,  get  back  into 
bed.  I  have  some  warm  water,  and  I  '11  find  the 
ginger.  You  see,  your  bed  is  cold.  That 's  what 
is  the  matter.  Now  I  'm  going  to  warm  you  up." 
And  she  lifted  her  back  into  bed  and  tucked 
her  in  and  found  the  ginger.  " Nasty  stuff,  isn't 
it,  Mamma!"  she  said,  bringing  the  glass. 

"  You  ought  to  have  been  in  bed  long  ago, 
dear,"  Mrs.  Ladd  whispered  as  she  drank.  "Now 
I  '11  be  all  right.  Go  to  bed,  won't  you  !  " 

"  Right  away,  Mamma.  Just  as  soon  as  I 
heat  some  water  to  put  into  the  hot-water  bag. 
There  now !  You  're  all  tucked  up.  I  '11  be  back 
in  a  minute." 

313      • 


THE   INVADERS 


And  then  she  flew  down  again  through  the 
dark,  chill  hall  to  the  kitchen.  Now,  now  the 
very  worst  was  coming,  she  was  wildly  thinking, 
with  her  heart  in  her  throat,  as  she  lighted  the 
old  kitchen  lamp  with  the  tin  reflector  and  went 
out  into  the  woodshed  for  chips  and  kindling. 
Anything  for  a  quick  fire !  Ben  was  welcome 
company  for  her  as  she  ran  to  and  fro  in  and 
out  of  the  dark  and  the  loneliness,  with  this  new 
terror  in  her  heart,  lighting  the  fire,  filling  the 
tea-kettle,  and  then  blowing  the  slow  flames  into 
a  flicker,  alert  all  the  while  for  the  sounds  from 
above.  But  there  were  no  sounds.  The  shabby 
old  rooms  looked  strange  and  unfamiliar  in  the 
stillness  and  the  long  shadows  of  midnight. 
When  at  last  she  bore  her  steaming  pitcher  up- 
stairs, the  memory  of  her  father  dead  there  in 
the  long  parlors  came  vividly  back  to  her  with 
a  terror  that  she  read  as  foreboding. 

Mrs.  Ladd  had  fallen  into  a  heavy,  quick- 
breathing  sleep,  with  feverish  cheeks.  Even 
when  Olivia  put  the  warmth  to  her  feet  and 
lifted  her  to  drink  hot  water  and  whiskey,  she 
did  not  rouse,  but  drank  obediently  and  then 
rambled  a  little  about  letting  out  the  tucks  in 
Olivia's  little  skirts. 

The  clock  struck  one.  Olivia  and  Ben  brought 
314 


ME  HEART  SENT  ME  FLYIN' 

more  kindling  and  coal  and  built  a  fire  in  the 
long-unused  grate  in  Mrs.  Ladd's  room,  sending 
strange  shadows  of  bed  and  canopy  and  of  Olivia 
herself  up  and  down  the  walls  and  ceiling.  Then, 
there  on  the  hearth-rug,  they  sat,  listening  and 
watching  during  the  interminable  hours,  Olivia 
realizing  and  fearing  and  planning.  At  dawn 
some  one  would  surely  be  passing  and  she  could 
send  for  Dr.  Barker  and  —  and  for  some  one 
else.  But  who  was  the  some  one  else  ?  Not  Mrs. 
Archibald  or  Mrs.  Clabby  or  Mrs.  Egerton  or 
Sarah  Tibbetts.  None  of  them  could  she  let  inti- 
mately near  that  proud,  reserved  mother  of  hers. 
And  Miss  Hollins  had  her  boarders  and  Pru- 
nella was  n't  well.  If  there  had  only  been  Mrs. 
Britton,  as  there  used  to  be  when  any  one  in  the 
village  was  ill  or  in  trouble  !  But  there  was  n't 
Mrs.  Britton  or  any  one  like  her.  And  there 
was  school  next  day  and  no  one  to  take  charge 
of  it.  And  then  she  dozed  off  in  the  warmth, 
resting  her  head  against  the  big  halfway  house 
chair,  and  dreamed  that  she  was  in  the  automo- 
bile, and  there  was  a  child  right  in  the  road 
and  she  clutched  Mr.  Joyce's  arm  and  screamed 
and  —  With  a  start  she  awoke  and  sprang  to 
her  feet.  The  clock  was  again  striking.  The 
windows  were  gray.  Her  mother  had  turned 
315 


THE  INVADERS 


over  and  lay  in  the  same  feverish  sleep  with  her 
face  to  the  faded  wallpaper.  From  downstairs 
there  came  suddenly  the  sound  of  the  chopping 
of  wood.  Ben's  ears  pricked. 

«  It 's  Timothy,  Ben  !  "  she  said.  "  He  's 
come  to  chop  the  wood  for  breakfast.  Bless 
him !  Bless  him  !  Now  we  '11  see.  We  '11  see, 
Ben." 

It  was  Timothy,  in  muffler  and  mittens,  chop- 
ping kindling  by  the  light  of  the  cracked  lan- 
tern in  the  woodshed. 

"  Begorra,  it 's  a  could  mornin',"  he  cried 
briskly,  "an'  not  a  wink  of  slape  had  I  f'r 
thinkin*  o*  ye  widout  kindlin'  enough  t'  bile  an 
egg.  But  y're  white  as  a  shate,Miss,  an'  threm- 
blin'.  For  God's  sake,  what  ails  y'  ?" 

Olivia  stood  shivering  in  the  doorway. 

"  Mamma  is  very  ill,"  she  said  tremulously, 
"  and  you  must  get  the  doctor  right  away, 
Timothy,  just  as  fast  as  you  can.  I  '11  make  the 
fire  while  you  're  gone,  and  then  there  '11  be 
some  hot  cof —  " 

"  Faix,  it's  not  hot  coffee  I'm  thinkin'  of," 
he  broke  in,  dropping  the  hatchet  and  gathering 
up  an  armful  of  sticks.  "  But  it 's  who  else  I  '11 
be  bringin'  t'  help  y',  child.  Y're  not  fit  t'  be  all 
alone  wid  all  the  cookin' an' the  nursin'an' — " 
316 


ME  HEART  SENT  ME  FLYIN' 

"No,  no,  Timothy!"  she  protested.  "Don't 
get  any  one.  I  'm  all  right.  Just  the  doctor,  and 
quick.  Then  we  '11  do  what  he  says.  But  I  'm  all 
right,  Timothy." 

"  God  love  y',  I  will,"  he  said  vaguely,  run- 
ning to  bring  in  a  hod  of  coal.  "  I  '11  have  him 
here  as  quick  as  that  ould  bone  of  a  horse  '11 
bring  him.  God  love  y',  child.  Don't  kill  yerseF 
with  worry.  It  will  all  come  right." 

And  then  he  scurried  away  in  the  frosty  air, 
and  Olivia  sank  down  by  the  kitchen  table  and 
hid  her  face  close  in  her  hands.  Somehow,  faith- 
ful old  Timothy  had  been  too  much  for  her. 
But  she  pressed  back  her  tears  and  built  the 
new  fire  on  the  embers  of  the  midnight  one, 
and  ground  the  coffee,  with  breathless  inter- 
missions for  listening  at  the  hall  door  and  for 
running  upstairs ;  and  soon  broad  daylight 
filled  the  rooms. 

In  one  of  the  throbbing  intervals  of  listening 
an  unexpected  sound  startled  her.  It  was  a 
motor-horn  with  a  strangely  familiar  note.  Very 
clearly  and  cheerily  it  shrieked  out  in  the  frosty 
air,  growing  ever  nearer  and  nearer.  Presently 
it  stopped  and  a  machine  rounded  the  corner 
of  the  house.  And  then  the  tea-kettle  began  to 
boil  over,  and  there  were  voices  outside  and  the 
317 


THE   INVADERS 


chugging  of  a  big  engine.  She  ran  to  the  side 
door  and  opened  it.  Perhaps  it  was  the  doctor 
in  the  Joyces'  motor-car.  It  would  be  just  like 
the  Joyces  to  pick  him  up  and  bring  him. 

But  it  was  old  Timothy  that  was  strutting 
proudly  from  the  machine,  calling  out  to  her, 
"  Faith,  the  doctor 's  comin',  but  it 's  hersel' 
I  Ve  brought  t'  help  y'."  And  following  him 
there  came,  neither  so  bravely  nor  so  confidently, 
but  swiftly,  and  with  both  hands  outstretched 
to  her,  Bride  Joyce. 

"  Y'  can  send  me  away  an'  it  '11  be  quite  all 
right,"  she  was  saying  softly,  "I'll  understand. 
But  as  I  was  going  t'  early  Mass  I  met  old 
Timothy  an'  he  was  after  tellin'  me,  an'  me  heart 
sent  me  flyin'  an'  —  an'  Pat  said  to  come.  It 's 
very  much  I  've  been  with  sickness,  the  way  per- 
haps I  can  help  y',  Miss  Ladd." 

Olivia  leaned  very  limply  against  the  door, 
very  weary  and  pale  and  disheveled.  She  was 
becoming  aware  that  at  the  wheel  sat  Mr.  Pat- 
rick Joyce  and  that  he  was  looking  at  her. 

"  Bride  would  love  t'  stay  with  y',"  he  said. 
"  An'  I  '11  fly  along  up  to  school  an'  make  it  all 
right  f'r  y'.  You  will,  please?" 

And  then  somehow  Bride's  arms  went  round 
her  and  Bride  led  her  into  the  house,  and  old 
318 


ME   HEART   SENT  ME   FLYIN' 

Timothy  poured  hot  coffee.  And  when  the  doc- 
tor had  come  and  Olivia  had  taken  him  upstairs, 
and  there  had  been  those  fearful  moments  in 
Mrs.  Ladd's  room  with  the  shutters  thrown  wide 
and  the  cold  light  and  the  little  black  stetho- 
scope, it  was  again  into  Bride's  open  arms  that 
she  went  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  to  hear  him 
say,— 

"  Your  mother 's  pretty  well  worn  out,  Olivia. 
It 's  pneumonia.  There 's  a  chance,  of  course. 
You'll  stay,  I  hope,  Miss  Joyce?" 

"  Sure  I  '11  stay,"  Bride  answered.  "  An* 
we  '11  take  the  chance,  with  God's  help." 


CHAPTER  XXV 

"  TO TO    SHE   WHO   ISS   MY    MUSIC  !  " 

ALTHOUGH  Miss  Hollins  had  promised  to  leave 
matters  in  the  hands  of  God,  she  found  it  very 
hard  not  to  assist  in  the  management.  Prunella 
herself  showed  no  such  exalted  intention  of 
abandoning  her  affairs  to  Divine  Providence. 
Indeed,  she  seemed  to  regard  herself  as  wholly 
capable  of  bringing  them  to  a  happy  and  digni- 
fied conclusion. 

A  few  days  after  she  had  first  partaken  of 
Father  Zujewski's  honey,  just  as  she  was  going 
to  open  the  noon  mail,  she  stood  at  the  kitchen 
door,  holding  the  screen  so  invitingly  ajar  that 
no  fly  of  even  the  lowest  degree  of  intelligence, 
would  refuse  to  enter. 

"  Aunt  Lou,"  she  said  abruptly,  "it's  because 
you  trust  me  and  you  don't  laugh  that  I  'm 
going  to  tell  you.  But  it  does  make  me  feel  like 
a — a  fool  to  talk  about  it,  after  all  I  used  to 
say.  I  Ve  thought  it  all  out.  You  know  what  I 
mean.  And  once  a  week,  every  Sunday  night, 
after  I  close  the  early  Monday  mail,  I  'm  going 
to  let  him  walk  home  with  me.  That 's  not  too 
320 


TO —  TO   SHE   WHO   ISS  MY  MUSIC 

much,  considering  he  's  going  away,  and  —  and 
—  he 's  so  fearfully  respectful.  Don't  tell  a  soul, 
will  you,  Aunt  Lou?  Don't  whisper  it  to  Olivia." 

"  Of  course  not,  Prunella.  But  do  shut  that 
door  and  keep  the  flies  out.  This  mild  weather 's 
hatched  out  a  new  lot.  And  of  course  I  trust 
you  —  absolutely,  child.  But  I  do  wish  you  'd 
trust  me  more.  I  know  a  little  about  such 
affairs." 

"  Oh,  I  do  trust  you,  Aunt  Lou.  But  I  seem 
so  —  so  silly  to  myself.  And  there's  nothing  to 
tell." 

And  so  Miss  Hollins  contented  herself  with 
reading  signs :  the  flowers  and  autumn  berries 
that  Prunella  brought  home,  her  laborious  and 
unmelodious  efforts  to  pick  out  the  scale  from 
the  old  green  "  Easy  Method  for  Piano  Play- 
ing," the  newly  careful  and  coquettish  way  she 
did  her  curly  brown  hair,  the  old  white  gloves  in 
which  she  slept  —  or  lay  awake  —  after  copious 
anointings  with  Orange  Flower  Skin  Food,  the 
small  Polish  Primer  that  fell  out  of  the  shabby 
black  cloth  bag  she  carried  to  and  from  the 
post-office,  and,  most  significant  of  all,  the  care 
she  took  to  speak  of  the  new  residents  of  Fern- 
field  as  "  the  Polish  people "  and  not  "  the 
Polanders."  And  as  well,  on  the  four  or  five 
321 


THE   INVADERS 


Sunday  nights  between  the  gladioli  Sunday 
and  Stefan's  farewell,  all  the  while  that  Miss 
Hollins  sat  trying  to  put  her  mind  on  the 
Scriptures,  she  was  really  listening,  with  throb- 
bing heart,  for  lingering  footsteps  in  the 
quiet  street,  and  for  Prunella's  softly  murmured 
"  good-night "  at  the  gate. 

And  Miss  Kirk,  too,  read  signs,  but  not 
aloud,  except  one  night  in  the  dark  in  the  up- 
stairs hall,  when  she  pressed  into  Prunella's 
hand  a  little  leather  case,  whispering,  "  There, 
dearest,  don't  say  a  word.  Just  wear  it  on  a 
little  white  ribbon  around  your  neck  where  no 
one  can  see  it.  It  will  help  you  with  your 
music." 

Prunella  took  it  breathlessly  and  ran  down 
to  the  kitchen  where  Miss  Hollins  was  making 
pumpkin  pies. 

"  Do  look,  Aunt  Lou  !  See  what  Miss  Kirk 
has  given  me,"  she  cried.  "It's  a  secret,  but 
you'd  see  it  anyhow  if  I  wore  it  around  my 
neck  as  she  said  to  do."  And  then  she  gave  a 
little  gasp  and  grew  rosy  as  the  opening  of 
the  little  case  revealed  a  small  locket  of  black 
enamel  with  a  purple  and  gold  diamond-hearted 
pansy  in  the  middle  and  a  little  empty  place  in- 
side for  a  picture. 

322 


TO  — TO   SHE   WHO   ISS   MY  MUSIC 

"  It 's  just  the  thing,  Prunella,"  Miss  Hollins 
exclaimed.  "Now  you  do  just  as  Miss  Kirk 
says." 

And  that  night  in  the  dark  hall  Miss  Kirk 
was  as  much  astonished  as  if  bandits  had  rushed 
out  from  the  fastnesses  of  the  housemaid's  closet, 
and  flourished  poniards,  for  Prunella  stole  out 
and  kissed  her. 

But  seemingly,  as  the  days  wore  on  and  the 
North  German  Lloyd  Steamship  Company 
booked  Mr.  Stefan  Posadowski,  second  class, 
for  the  first  December  sailing,  Stefan  himself 
was  not  content  to  leave  affairs  wholly  in  the 
hands  of  Providence. 

Prunella,  indeed,  intimated  as  much  when 
she  said  abruptly,  polishing  the  brass  knocker 
until  she  herself  shone  from  it  in  refracted  bits 
of  color,  — 

"Stefan  's  coming  to  see  you  to-morrow  morn- 
ing, Aunt  Lou,  about  ten,  to  talk  —  talk  over 
things.  And  you  said  to  get  Sultana  raisins  and 
Welcome  soap  and  —  " 

"  For  pity's  sake,  Prunella  !  In  the  morning! 
Whatever  shall  I  do  !  I  can't  put  on  my  china 
silk  in  the  morning.  I  never  did  such  a  thing 
in  my  life." 

"  But  why  should  you,  Aunt  Lou  ?  Stefan 
323 


THE   INVADERS 


does  n't  care.  He  does  n't  know  the  differ- 
ence." 

"  But  the  appropriateness,  Prunella !  That 's 
one  thing  you  've  always  lacked,  dear,  a  sense 
of  appropriateness.  And  as  a  family  we  've  al- 
ways had  it." 

"  Appropriateness  !  Dear  me  !  Poor  Stefan  ! 
Mrs.  Wieniaski  —  " 

"  Mrs.  Wieniaski  has  nothing  to  do  with  it, 
Prunella.  Stefan  is  n't  of  her  blood.  He 's  Mr. 
Wieniaski's  sister's  child,  you  said." 

"  I  know  I  did.  But  Mr.  Wieniaski  is  n't 
what  you  'd  call  a  —  a  —  " 

"  That  does  n't  make  the  least  bit  of  differ- 
ence, my  dear  !  It 's  wholly  a  matter  of  appro- 
priateness. And  somehow  —  you  need  n't  say  a 
word  —  I  '11  slip  upstairs  and  get  on  my  china 
silk  before  he  comes." 

And  the  next  morning  Prunella  was  not 
sorry  the  china  silk  graced  the  occasion,  but 
she  was  unprepared  for  the  point-lace  collar  that 
replaced  Miss  Hollins's  usual  frill  of  net,  and 
for  the  brooch  of  clustered  diamonds  that  usu- 
ally was  safely  hidden  in  an  old  stocking  be- 
tween the  mattresses  on  the  fourposter.  After 
the  brooch,  she  was  not  unduly  amazed  to  see, 
upon  Miss  Hollins's  delicately  turned  wrist,  the 
324 


TO— TO   SHE   WHO  ISS   MY  MUSIC 

fringed  bracelet  of  ribbon  gold  that  ran  through 
a  slide.  So  arrayed,  Miss  Hollins  sat  in  the 
parlor  by  the  centre  table,  with  the  family  Bible 
not  inconspicuous  among  the  photographs  and 
flowers  and  little  china  ornaments.  But  Pru- 
nella did  not  stop  for  more  than  a  glance  when 
she  rushed  in  from  the  office  and  fled  upstairs 
to  hide  herself. 

However,  in  the  very  brief  interval  between 
ten  o'clock  and  seven  minutes  after,  when  the 
front  gate  clicked,  Miss  Hollins  saw  various 
flecks  of  dust  on  various  objects,  and  made  swift 
dabs  at  them  with  her  best  pocket  handkerchief. 
After  one  of  these  excursions,  she  had  hardly 
time  to  compose  herself  at  the  table,  with  her 
hand  on  the  family  Bible,  as  seemed  right  and 
proper,  when  Robbie  opened  the  front  door 
with  perhaps  indelicate  promptness  and  ushered 
Mr.  Stefan  Posadowski  into  her  presence.  The 
matter  of  Robbie's  answering  the  bell  had  been 
a  confidential  arrangement.  Prunella  would  not 
have  understood  its  appropriateness,  and  Rob- 
bie had  been  quite  willing  to  wait  in  the  cloak 
closet  under  the  stairs. 

And  when  Stefan  entered,  Miss  Hollins  was 
at  once  agreeably  aware  that  she  had  been 
right  in  insisting  upon  the  appropriateness  of 
325 


THE   INVADERS 


certain  arrangements  to  such  an  occasion,  and 
as  well  that  it  really  was  a  good  deal  of  an  occa- 
sion. Stefan's  pale  face  and  grave  bearing,  the 
pink  rosebud  in  his  button-hole,  and  the  bunch 
of  full  white  Druschki  roses  that  he  handed  to 
her  as  he  bent  over  her  hand  and  kissed  it  with 
his  fervent,  "My  heart  is  at  ze  feet,  gracious 
lady,"  —  all  this  very  extraordinary  behavior 
on  the  part  of  a  guest  in  the  little  parlor  made 
Miss  Hollins  feel  very  sure  that  nothing  could 
be  too  appropriate  to  such  an  occasion. 

"Do  sit  down,"  she  said  cordially,  when  she 
had  recovered  her  hand.  "  And  thank  you  so 
much  for  the  roses.  They  are  most  beautiful.  I 
did  n't  know  you  could  get  such  roses  at  this 
time  of  year." 

Stefan  had  seated  himself  on  the  extreme 
edge  of  the  most  uncomfortable  of  the  high- 
backed,  spindle-legged  chairs.  He  held  his  soft 
gray  felt  hat  in  his  slender,  shapely  brown 
hands.  As  she  spoke,  a  faint  color  came  to  his 
olive  cheeks  and  he  swallowed  hard. 

"  Ze  city,"  he  said.  "  In  ze  city  I  get  zem. 
Zey  are  nutting." 

"  Oh,  they  are  lovely !  "  she  insisted.  "  And  I 
have  never  seen  you  to  thank  you  for  the  fine 
music  at  our  ccmcert." 

326 


TO  — TO   SHE   WHO   ISS  MY  MUSIC 

He  colored  more  deeply.  "  I  like  if  you  like 
it,"  he  said. 

And,  meanwhile,  she  was  wanting  to  say 
every  kind  thing  in  the  world  to  this  shy,  un- 
comfortable young  man  with  the  very  clear  eyes 
that  looked  so  frankly,  and  yet  so  beseechingly, 
into  hers.  She  blushed  as  she  realized  that  she 
would  really  like  to  put  her  arms  around  him 
and  kiss  his  forehead  and  say  to  him,  "  My  boy  ! 
My  boy !  I  've  seen  the  picture  of  your  beauti- 
ful mother.  You  have  her  eyes."  But,  of  course, 
she  said  nothing  that  was  of  so  sentimental  a 
character,  and  no  one  would  ever  have  guessed 
that  she  was  even  thinking  it.  She  did,  however, 
have  the  inspiration  to  leave  the  shelter  of  the 
family  Bible  and  seat  him  less  formally.  It  sud- 
denly seemed  to  her  that  tact  and  graciousness 
were  the  easiest  things  in  the  world. 

"  Suppose  we  sit  over  on  the  davenport," 
she  said.  "  Then  we  can  talk  much  better." 

And  when  they  were  side  by  side  she  found 
herself  going  on  —  surely  because  Providence 
was  helping  her  — 

"  And  the  other  day  your  priest  told  me 
your  wonderful  story.  Your  story  is  like  what 
you  play." 

"  It  iss  what  I  play  —  zat  an'  my  country's 
327 


THE   INVADEKS 


story,  an'  now  —  now,  ze  uzzer  story,"  he  said 
in  a  lower  tone.  "  Always  now  I  am  playing  ze 
uzzer  story." 

"  The  other  story  ?  "  she  laughed.  "  Prunella, 
you  mean?  She's  a  dear  child,  anyhow."  He 
was  crushing  his  hat-brim  in  his  supple  fingers. 

"  To  me  she  iss  pure  like  stars,  an'  beautiful 
like  flowers.  I  cannot  gif  her  stars.  Stars  I  mus' 
play  to  her.  But  flowers  I  bring." 

"  She  is  a  dear,  good  child,  Prunella  is,"  she 
repeated.  She  was  getting  a  little  frightened  at 
his  grave  intensity.  Her  own  heart  began  to 
beat  too  fast.  Then  quite  suddenly  so  much 
happened  that  she  forgot  everything  but  an  old 
steel  engraving  called  "  The  Suppliant  Lover  " 
in  "  The  Lady's  Keepsake  "  in  the  parlor  of  her 
childhood. 

Stefan,  quite  pale  again,  was  the  Suppliant 
Lover.  He  had  once  more  lifted  her  hand  and 
kissed  it  fervently  while  he  sank  upon  one  knee 
at  her  side  and  looked  at  her  with  eyes  that 
burned  as  pure  as  Grail  lights. 

"  You  will  forgif,  gracious  lady,  if  too  much 
I  ask,"  he  began  finely  and  fervently.  Then 
less  finely  and  even  more  fervently,  "  I  lofe  her. 
Next  by  God  I  lofe  her.  Not  yet  I  tell  her.  I 
wait  zat  you  say  '  yes.'  An'  zis  I  tell  you.  I  haf 
328 


TO  — TO   SHE   WHO   ISS  MY  MUSIC 

—  of  myself  —  all  to  gif  her.  I  haf  no  money. 
That  I  mek  for  her.  But  of  myself  I  haf  all — 
all  since  I  was  born.  Never  no  uzzer  woman. 
My  fazzer,  he  was  prince.  But  Fazzer  Zujewski 
he  say,  all  time,  it  iss  more  high  than  prince  to 
haf  all  to  gif  to  a  woman  I  lof  e.  I  haf  all  —  an' 
if  you  will  trus' !  Ze  money  I  mek  wiz  my  fin- 
gers. An'  zen  I  come  back  —  " 

And  then  it  was  that  Miss  Hollins  achieved 
her  highest.  She  leaned  forward  and  put  a  hand 
on  each  of  Stefan's  shoulders,  and  kissed  him 
right  on  his  forehead  under  the  lock  of  hair 
that  would  n't  lie  smooth. 

"  My  boy  !  My  boy  !  "  she  murmured.  "  Of 
course  I'll  trust  you.  Now  you  wait  a  minute." 
And  then,  while  he  was  getting  up  from  being 
the  Suppliant  Lover,  she  went  into  the  hall  and 
called  quite  clearly,  "Prunella!  Prunella! 
Come  quickly ! " 

And  Prunella  came  quickly,  flushed,  very 
bright-eyed,  tremulous,  and  stood  uncertain  on 
the  threshold. 

"  I  've  kissed  him  on  the  forehead  where  his 
mother  would  like  to  kiss  him,  dear,"  Miss  Hol- 
lins said.  "  Now  I  'm  going  to  get  him  a  cake 
to  take  away  with  him." 

And  as  she  went,  she  knew,  although  she 
329 


THE   INVADERS 


did  not  look  back,  that  Stefan  dropped  his  hat, 
and  took  Prunella  into  his  arms,  and  that  Pru- 
nella did  not  kiss  him  on  the  forehead. 

When  presently  she  returned  with  one  cake 
all  tied  up  in  a  box  ready  for  any  amount  of 
rushing  by  land  and  tossing  by  sea,  and  another 
cut  into  golden  slices  on  a  Canton  plate,  flanked 
with  little  glasses  and  a  small  fat  decanter  of 
dandelion  wine,  it  seemed  as  natural  as  daylight 
for  Stefan  to  be  holding  Prunella's  right  hand 
and  for  Prunella  at  that  moment  to  be  gazing 
at  a  ring  on  the  ring  finger  of  her  left  hand. 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Lou !  See  !  Is  n't  it  adorable !  It 
was  Stefan's  mother's,"  she  cried,  half  in  a 
dream. 

And  it  was  adorable,  the  ring  made  of  six 
fine,  fine  little  rings,  each  banded  with  a  differ- 
ent jewel. 

"  Ze  nuns,  when  my  muzzer  die,  always  have 
kept  it  for  me,"  Stefan  explained,  looking  up 
with  his  half  smile. 

"  Of  course  it 's  adorable,"  Miss  Hollins  said, 
putting  down  her  tray  next  to  the  Bible.  "But 
it's  no  more  adorable  than  Stefan's  mother 
was.  Wait  till  you  've  seen  her  picture,  Pru- 
nella. You  see,  I  Ve  known  all  about  Stefan 
for  —  for  some  time.  And  I  suppose  he  is  too 
330 


TO  — TO  SHE   WHO  ISS   MY  MUSIC 

modest  to  tell  you  that  his  father  was  a  prince, 
Prince  Nicholas  Posadowski.  I've  known  all 
about  it,  of  course,  Prunella." 

Prunella  lifted  Stefan's  hand  and  shyly  and 
quickly  kissed  it. 

"  No,  he  has  not  told  me,"  she  said,  still 
dreamily,  looking  at  him  with  a  deep  little 
smile.  "  It  would  be  all  right  anyway." 

Miss  Hollins  was  passing  the  cake.  "Now 
take  a  big  piece,  Stefan,"  she  said.  "  It 's  good 
cake,  if  I  do  say  so  as  should  n't.  And  here 's 
your  wine.  Prunella  gathered  the  dandelions. 
And  the  glasses  my  father  used  when  he  enter- 
tained the  Massachusetts  Bench." 

Stefan  sprang  up  and  touched  his  glass  to 
Prunella's.  Then  high  against  the  sunny  east 
window  he  watched  it  sparkle,  his  face  flushed 
and  smiling  into  a  new  Stefan. 

"  To  —  to  —  to  she  who  iss  my  music !  "  he 
said.  Then  he  bent  to  touch  Miss  Hollins's 
glass.  "  An'  to — to  she  what  gif  me  my  music ! " 
he  finished  as  he  drained  his  glass. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

TAKING   THE   CHANCE 

\\mLE  Fate  was  spinning  so  fast  and  so  sure 
for  Prunella  and  Stefan,  Olivia  and  Bride  were 
taking  the  chance  in  the  sad  old  house  through 
the  gray  days  that  ever  threatened  snow.  And 
truly  not  much  of  a  chance  did  it  seem  from 
the  very  first,  with  Mrs.  Ladd  every  day  more 
and  more  of  a  hoarse,  delirious  shadow  in  the 
high-posted  old  bed,  talking,  talking,  telling  all 
the  close-hid  secrets  of  years,  and  always  with 
the  muttered  refrain  about  the  Irish  stealing 
the  place  from  her.  At  first,  when  the  querulous 
voice  had  begun  its  revelations  and  its  com- 
plaints, Olivia's  impulse  had  been  to  keep  Bride 
out  of  the  sick-room  and  to  take  all  the  nursing 
herself.  But  Bride,  in  her  noiseless  white  gown, 
had  gone  to  the  bedside  and  laid  her  cool,  firm 
hand  on  Mrs.  Ladd's  hot  wandering  one  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  had  lifted  her  and  turned  her 
pillows,  and  said,  "  Go  to  sleep,  dear  one.  Go 
to  sleep.  Everything 's  all  right,  sure  !  Go  to 
sleep  ! "  And  Mrs.  Ladd  had  gone  to  sleep,  just 
as  if  it  had  not  been  the  brogue  that  had  soothed 
332 


TAKING  THE   CHANCE 


her  and  the  hand  of  an  Irish  invader  that  had 
turned  her  pillows.  And  then  Bride  had  put  an 
arm  around  Olivia,  nervously  sweeping  up  the 
hearth,  "  Sweetheart,  y'll  not  mind  me,"  she 
had  said.  "  It 's  ever  since  I  was  a  child  I  've 
been  with  the  sick  an'  I  love  them.  Faith,  y* 
wouldn't  mind  what  they  are  sayin'.  It's  what 
the  well  say  that  y'  mind." 

And  so  Bride  stayed  in  the  sick-room,  in  full 
possession,  with  her  nurse's  chart,  in  which  she 
wrote  every  detail  in  her  fine  convent  hand,  and 
her  little  thermometer,  and  her  bright  fire,  and 
her  open  windows,  and  in  fullest  measure,  Dr. 
Barker's  confidence.  It  was  not  by  any  means 
the  first  Fernfield  sick-room  in  which  she  had 
been  his  mainstay  and  support.  Meanwhile, 
downstairs  Olivia  and  old  Timothy  kept  up  the 
house  and  cared  for  the  hot-beds  and  cold- 
frames,  Olivia  thanking  the  overruling  powers, 
whatever  they  were,  that  Bride  was  so  efficient 
and  so  tender  where  she  herself  could  not  en- 
dure to  be,  and  yet  longed  to  be.  Never  once 
did  she  softly  turn  the  knob  and  tiptoe  in  with 
fresh  water  or  squeezed  beef  juice,  or  a  cup  of  tea 
for  Bride,  or  the  wood  that  Timothy  left  at  the 
door,  that  her  heart  did  not  sicken  with  the  con- 
flict of  longing  to  stay,  and  yet  of  fearing,  fear- 
333 


THE  INVADERS 


ing  the  changed  mother  in  the  bed.  So  down- 
stairs she  worked  savagely,  with  flaming  cheeks 
and  freezing  hands  and  a  voice  that  did  not 
sound  to  her  like  her  own.  That  Patrick  Joyce 
was  there  off  and  on  all  day  and  steadily  all  night, 
anticipating  every  want  and  need,  and  ready 
for  every  emergency,  made  no  more  difference 
to  her  than  that  old  Timothy  sat  in  the  kitchen 
with  his  mittens  on  and  his  muffler  round  his 
shoulders,  as  prepared  as  a  fireman  for  her  call. 
She  saw  Joyce  down  a  long,  long  perspective 
of  fear,  and  the  bitter  worst  that  was  coming 
to  her  seemed  like  the  blight  of  winter  between 
them.  But  still,  vaguely,  far  off  from  her  im- 
mediate consciousness,  there  was  a  comfort  in 
his  big  fur  coat  on  the  rack  in  the  hall  and  in 
the  ring  of  his  motor-horn  in  the  stillness. 

Once,  when  he  found  her  sitting  dejectedly 
by  the  kitchen  table  with  her  head  buried  in 
her  arms,  he  produced  a  flask  from  his  deep 
coat  pocket,  and  when  she  looked  up,  smiling 
wanly  at  him,  he  went  boldly  into  the  pantry 
and  found  a  glass  and  poured  it  red  and  full, 
and  then  came  to  her  and  said,  quite  gravely 
and  firmly,  "  You  must  drink  this  sherry.  You 
must.  You  can't  kill  yourself.  You  must." 

And  she  obeyed  him  and  nibbled  the  cracker 
334 


TAKING  THE  CHANCE 


he  brought  from  further  exploration.  Then, 
when  he  came  back  after  a  whispered  talk  with 
Bride  in  the  hall,  and  found  her  drowsy  from 
the  wine  and  her  vigils,  he  drew  the  lounge 
nearer  the  fire  and  beat  up  the  cushions  with 
the  vigor  of  a  prize  fighter,  and  said,  "  Come, 
now,  and  lie  down.  That 's  a  reasonable  child. 
Bride  says  the  temperature 's  down  quite  a  bit 
and  she's  sleeping.  Now  you  will  sleep,  too, 
for  a  while,  in  the  warmth."  And  she  got  on 
the  couch  and  he  put  the  old  red  afghan  over 
her  and  she  went  to  sleep.  And  not  once  did 
she  protest.  He  was  too  remote  for  her  to  care. 
Dacre,  too,  seemed  far  out  of  her  life,  so  far  that 
the  rareness  of  his  letters  did  not  matter  to  her. 
Everything  seemed  far  away  and  in  the  same 
dim  perspective,  except  the  mother  upstairs  in 
the  big  front  room  with  little  Bride  taking  the 
chance  for  her. 

But  worst  were  the  vigils  at  night  when 
Bride  unwillingly  left  for  some  rest  in  the  room 
across  the  hall.  Then  Olivia  sat  in  the  glow  of 
the  little  night  lamp,  shrunken  into  herself  in 
fear,  her  big  eyes  on  the  bed  over  there  in  the 
shadow,  sometimes  venturing  near  and,  on  her 
knees,  taking  her  mother's  hot  hand  between 
hers  and  saying  over  and  over  in  the  depths  of 
335 


THE  INVADERS 


her  thought,  "  Bravest  Mamma  !  Bravest  Mam- 
ma !  It  was  to  give  me  everything  that  you 
gave  all."  Then  she  would  turn  quickly  away 
with  her  fingers  in  her  ears,  stricken  with  the 
rambling  talk,  the  calling  upon  old  names  and 
the  terror  of  old  sorrows. 

The  neighbors  came  in  to  help  and  to  sym- 
pathize. With  them  all  she  was  very  composed 
and  very  confident,  and  not  communicative. 
In  the  matter  of  their  coming  to  stay  with  her 
and  help,  she  was  very  firmly  decided.  They 
were  very,  very  kind,  but  there  was  not  the  least 
need  of  it.  Miss  Joyce  was  most  kind  and  a 
most  experienced  nurse.  Dr.  Barker  had  asked 
her  to  stay.  It  was  a  great  favor  on  her  part. 
And  there  was  really  very  little  to  do  but  wait 
for  the  crisis.  In  pneumonia  there  was  so  little 
one  could  do.  With  Dr.  Britton,  however,  she 
was  a  much  less  self-possessed  Olivia.  She  talked 
more  freely,  and  brushed  away  tears  when  he 
spoke  of  her  mother's  courage,  and  even  got 
down  on  her  knees  when  he  ventured  to  pray 
with  her.  But  even  with  him  she  was  quite 
as  firm  in  her  refusal  to  have  Mrs.  Archibald 
or  Miss  Tibbetts  or  even  Miss  Hollins  in  to 
help. 

"  Mamma  would  be  exceedingly  displeased  to 
336 


TAKING  THE   CHANCE 


have  any  outsider  come  in,"  she  said.  "You  know 
Mamma  well  enough  for  that,  Dr.  Britton." 

"  But,  my  child,  Miss  Joyce  is  —  is  very  much 
of  an  outsider,"  he  ventured. 

"  Mamma  would  not  refuse  to  have  the  nurse 
the  doctor  asked  to  have,"  she  said  finally. 

And  so  he  went  away,  thinking  as  he  put  on 
his  coat  out  in  the  cold  hall,  of  all  the  sad  days 
he  had  seen  in  that  old  house,  and  praying  that 
God  would  hold  Olivia  in  the  hollow  of  His 
Hand. 

"  Sometimes,  sometimes,  He  hides  us  so  safe 
in  the  hollow  of  His  Hand,  and  in  the  shadow 
of  His  Wing,  that  His  ways  with  us  are  not 
seen  by  those  who  love  us  and  fear  for  us,"  he 
was  thinking  as  he  folded  in  his  black  silk  muf- 
fler and  went  down  the  garden  path  through 
the  light  snowfall. 

When  Miss  Hollins  came,  things  were  very 
much  easier.  Miss  Hollins  was  so  thankful  Bride 
was  there.  Bride  was  very  wonderful,  equal  to 
anything,  and  such  a  dear !  But  then  she  would 
gladly  come,  too,  if  Olivia  wanted  her.  Olivia 
knew  that.  Miss  Hollins  loved  Mary  Ladd  just 
like  a  sister.  And  Prunella  was  feeling  much 
better,  quite  like  a  new  Prunella.  No,  it  had  not 
been  the  tonic  and  the  milk.  It  had  just  been 
337 


THE   INVADERS 


that  —  that  things  looked  different  to  Prunella. 
And  there  were  n't  many  regular  boarders  ex- 
cept for  meals,  and  she  could  come  as  well  as  — 
But  Olivia  would  not  hear  to  it  —  yet.  If  —  if 
—  if  things  weren't  much  better  soon,  then 
Miss  Hollins  must  come,  but  not  yet,  not  just 
now.  All  the  time,  as  she  talked  to  Miss  Hol- 
lins and  the  other  old  friends  and  neighbors,  she 
was  thinking  of  the  secrets  that  were  being 
chattered  out  so  piteously  upstairs  in  the  big 
front  room. 

So  Miss  Hollins  had  gone  away,  and  sent 
back  cake  and  brandy  peaches  and  dandelion 
wine  and  baked  beans  and  a  mince  pie  and  a 
roast  fowl,  all  tucked  into  Bobbie's  little  red 
wagon,  with  Bobbie  as  motive  power,  in  the 
purple  muffler  and  mittens  she  had  just  made 
for  him  between  times. 

Then  had  come  the  night  of  the  crisis. 
Strength  was  at  so  low  an  ebb  that  the  poig- 
nant raving  was  silenced  and  only  the  labored 
breath  and  the  plucking  fingers  gave  sign  of 
life.  Bride  was  on  her  knees  with  bowed  head 
every  moment  she  was  not  hovering  near  her 
patient.  The  doctor  had  come  at  six  and  would 
come  again  at  twelve,  in  spite  of  the  blinding 
snow  that  had  been  falling  since  dawn,  muffling 
338 


TAKING  THE  CHANCE 


the  whole  world  out  from  the  sad  old  house. 
Olivia  went  up  and  down,  a  thousand  ages 
older  than  herself,  with  dry  throat  and  flaming 
cheeks  and  cold  hands.  Downstairs,  Patrick 
Joyce  tended  the  fires  and  walked  back  and 
forth,  back  and  forth  the  length  of  study  and 
dining-room,  and  old  Timothy,  with  the  dog  at 
his  feet,  crouched  by  the  kitchen  stove,  rubbing 
his  hard  old  hands  together  nervously  in  his  en- 
forced idleness  and  dropping  into  little  dozes. 
It  was  a  relief  that  the  paths  needed  shovelling 
so  often  and  the  fires  burnt  out  so  soon. 

Presently,  with  a  little  gust  of  cold  hall  air, 
Olivia  came  into  the  study  and  shut  the  door. 

"  Won't  you  —  won't  you  rest  on  the  lounge, 
Mr.  Joyce  ?  "  she  said.  "  I  'm  quite  fresh  and 
ready  and  you're  so  tired.  I'm  just  killing  you 
and  Bride."  She  sat  down  in  her  little-girl 
rocker  by  the  hearth  and  held  her  cold  hands 
to  the  blaze  he  had  made  so  cheerful. 

"  Oh,  no,  indeed  !  I  'm  not  a  bit  tired.  And 
you  're  — you  're  very  good  to  Bride  and  me  to 
let  us  help  you.  It  is  what  Bride  loves  above  all 
things,  that  she  can  help  those  that  she  loves." 
He  leant  on  the  high  back  of  the  armchair 
opposite  her  and  looked  at  her  a  moment,  and 
then  away  from  her  into  the  flames. 
339 


THE   INVADERS 


"  There 's  a  chance !  There  's  a  chance  still," 
she  exclaimed  breathlessly,  clasping  her  hands 
tight  in  her  lap. 

"  Of  course  there 's  a  chance.  There 's  a 
great  chance.  Just  keep  believing  and  trusting 
that." 

"  I  wish  —  I  wish  I  could  do  what  Bride  is 
doing,"  she  sighed. 

"  Faith,  I  can  guess  what  Bride  is  doing," 
he  said,  with  a  little  smile.  "  It 's  the  best  thing 
one  can  do." 

"  Can  you  do  it?    Can  you?  " 

"  I  can't  do  it  like  Bride,  the  way  it 's  like 
• —  like  speaking  with  your  Father,  so  sure  it  is 
and  so  loving.  But  I  can  —  can  stammer  a  bit." 

She  started  up  and  sat  down  again.  It  was 
the  clock  striking  eleven.  She  had  grown 
whiter  even  in  the  firelight.  She  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands.  Joyce  stood  very  still 
watching  the  low  flames  shining  on  her  bowed 
head.  She  looked  up  before  he  had  looked 
away. 

"In  one  hour!"  she  whispered.  "In  one 
hour  !  Oh,  I  wish  I  could  !  "  Then  she  got  up 
and  going  to  the  window  pulled  back  the  old 
red  rep  curtains.  "  Wonderful !  Wonderful !  " 
she  whispered  on,  looking  out  at  the  dim  white 
340 


TAKING  THE  CHANCE 


world  beyond  the  drift-piled  windows.  "  Real 
Christmas  weather.  And  snow  's  so  good  for 
tobacco  fields." 

Then  she  went  into  the  kitchen,  to  Timothy 
asleep  by  the  stove. 

"  Why  in  the  world  don't  you  go  to  bed, 
Timothy  ?  "  she  said.  "  You  '11  make  yourself 
sick.  There 's  nothing  more  to  do  to-night." 

He  awoke  with  a  start.  "Shure,  Miss,  an* 
there 's  the  paths  to  shovel  for  the  doctor.  And 
there 's  no  slape  in  me  eyes." 

"  Oh  no,  no,  Timothy.  Everything  has  been 
done.  You  go  to  bed  and  get  a  good  sleep. 
But  first,  here 's  some  hot  coffee  and  dough- 
nuts for  you.  Miss  Hollins's  doughnuts,Timothy . 
You  know  how  good  they  are." 

And  Joyce,  from  his  place  by  the  fire,  could 
see  her  pouring  out  the  coffee  and  stopping  to 
roll  the  doughnuts  in  powdered  sugar,  and  set- 
ting out  the  sugar  and  cream. 

"  Let  me  see,  Timothy,"  she  said.  "  It 's  three 
lumps  you  take  ?  " 

"  It  is,  Miss.  God  love  y' !  " 

Then  she  came  back  to  her  little  chair  for  a 
moment,  and  stared  into  the  fire,  and  Joyce 
went  on  with  his  walk. 

"  If  you  —  you  could,  please,  please,  be  doing 
341 


THE   INVADERS 


what  Bride  is  doing,"  she  said,  looking  up  as  he 
came  near. 

"  I  am,"  he  smiled  back.  "  I  'm  doing  my 
best." 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said,  almost  formally,  and 
then  after  a  long  look  at  the  fire,  she  went 
softly  out  and  upstairs. 

There  things  were  unchanged.  Bride  was  on 
her  knees  by  the  little  table  at  the  head  of  the 
bed.  The  lamplight  shone  in  the  glass  of  water 
with  the  spoon  across  the  top.  The  little  round 
clock  ticked  sharply.  A  fresh  wind  moved  the 
curtains  at  the  half-open  west  window.  She  sat 
down  close  to  Bride  in  the  big  armchair.  The 
lamplight  turned  the  soft  hair  on  her  bowed 
head  to  fine  gold. 

She  looked  up  at  Olivia  with  a  little  smile. 

"  I  am  not  praying  so  hard  because  it  is  hope- 
less," she  whispered.  "  I  'm  just  begging  God 
because  He  's —  He 's  almost  willing,  I  think." 

Olivia  put  her  hand  in  Bride's. 

So  they  were  sitting  when  they  heard  the  far, 
hushed  jingle  of  sleighbells.  It  stopped  at  the 
gate  with  a  sudden  tinkle.  The  study  door 
opened.  There  were  steps  in  the  hall.  Olivia 
went  to  the  window  and  looked  out.  A  long 
beam  of  light  fell  on  the  pathway.  Dr.  Barker 
342 


TAKING  THE  CHANCE 


was  tramping  up,  stamping  the  snow  off  on  the 
steps,  talking  in  low  tones  to  Patrick  in  the  hall. 
The  front  door  shut.  He  was  coming  upstairs, 
not  with  a  young  step,  the  good  old  doctor  who  had 
brought  her  into  the  world  in  that  very  room. 

Bride  opened  the  door.  Olivia  sank  on  her 
knees  behind  the  curtains,  against  the  window. 
The  fine  snow  sifted  in,  through  the  crack,  on 
her  cheek.  What  was  he  going  to  say?  She 
could  not  bear  it.  She  put  her  fingers  in  her  ears. 

"0  God!  0  God!  You  know  all  about 
Mamma.  You  know  all  about  Mamma,"  her 
heart  was  throbbing.  "  Don't,  God !  Please, 
please,  don't !  " 

Then  in  the  heat  and  the  cold  and  the 
throbbing  Dr.  Barker's  arm  went  round  her  and 
his  laugh  made  the  fingers  fly  out  of  her  ears. 

"  She  's  sweating,  child.  She  '11  pull  through," 
he  was  saying.  "  Now  be  brisk  and  get  us  some 
fresh  water." 

"  Yes,  sir ! "  she  said,  like  a  child,  as  the 
agony  slipped  off.  "  Yes,  sir ! " 

And  then  she  flew  downstairs  to  the  door 
Joyce  opened  for  her.  At  the  sight  of  him,  she 
gave  a  little  laugh  and  swayed  a  little. 

"  Suppose  it  had  n't  been  !  Suppose  it  had  n't 
been  !  "  she  cried  as  he  caught  her  in  his  arms. 
343 


THE   INVADERS 


And  for  a  moment  she  leaned  there  close, 
clutching  his  arm,  with  her  little  cry,  her  head 
on  his  shoulder,  his  hand  on  her  hair.  He 
let  her  sob  and  sob,  and  laugh,  and  then  the 
tears  came  and  she  buried  her  face  deeper  on 
his  shoulder.  "And  she's  sweating!  She's 
sweating  !  "  she  cried.  "  She  '11  live.  And  it 's 
you  and  Bride  !  It 's  you  and  Bride  !  " 

Then  suddenly,  with  another  little  laugh,  she 
started  back,  her  wet  face  crimson. 

"  Oh  !  Oh  !  I  beg  a  thousand  pardons  !  "  she 
cried.  "  I  did  not  know  what  I  was  doing !  I 
am  so  glad  !  Nothing  matters,  does  it !  It  —  it 
might  have  been  Timothy !  I  should  n't  have 
cared.  Plucky  Mamma !  Is  n't  she  a  good  one ! 
And  —  and  —  "  She  stopped  and  took  the 
handkerchief  Joyce  handed  her  and  wiped  her 
face  and  brushed  back  her  tossed  hair.  "  Oh,  it 
was  water  I  said  I  'd  get.  I  must  hurry.  He 's 
waiting.  Perhaps  it 's  a  drink  for  Mamma.  God 
bless  him !  " 

And  then  she  cried  again  while  Joyce  was 
getting  her  fresh  water  from  the  pump  in  the 
woodshed. 

"  See  !  See  how  I  've  spotted  your  coat,"  she 
said  gayly  as  she  took  the  little  pitcher  and  ran 
upstairs. 


CHAPTEK  XXVII 

CALENDAE-DAY 

SOLOMON  CLABBY'S  pa  wprints  spotted  the  driven 
snow  on  Mrs.  Clabby's  front  porch.  It  was 
New  Year's  afternoon  and  Solomon's  mistress 
was  celebrating  at  Mrs.  Archibald's,  whither 
she  had  gone  in  the  early  forenoon,  bearing  a 
temperance  mince  pie  flavored  with  cold  tea 
instead  of  liquor,  and  a  cake  made  by  a  recipe 
that  did  n't  call  for  eggs.  Solomon  himself  was 
not  of  the  party.  His  dinner  was  in  a  cracked 
blue  saucer  under  the  kitchen  stove,  or  had  been, 
for  he  had  partaken  of  every  scrap  of  it,  and 
was  seated  in  the  front  window  close  against 
the  pane,  licking  his  paws  and  then  rubbing 
them  meditatively  over  his  nose.  Now  and  then 
he  paused  and  pricked  up  his  ears  at  the  flocks 
of  sparrows  that  fluttered  down  from  the  cedar 
trees.  There  had  been  an  arborvitse  hedge  in 
front  of  Mrs.  Clabby's  little  gabled  cottage,  but 
she  had  had  it  cut  down,  for  reasons. 

Presently,  the  sparrows  out  on  the  snow  scat- 
tered wildly.  A  sleigh  jingled  swiftly  by,  a  cut- 
ter filled  with  robes  and  fur  coats,  and  in  the 
345 


THE   INVADERS 


robes  and  coats,  Olivia  Ladd  and  Patrick  Joyce. 
Solomon  did  not  even  stop  his  massage.  He 
blinked  at  the  sparrows  up  on  the  cedar  boughs 
and  rubbed  a  moist  paw  over  both  eyes  on  its 
way  to  an  ear. 

Mrs.  Clabby  and  Mrs.  Archibald  were  just 
too  late,  in  their  rush  to  the  window  at  the 
sound  of  the  bells. 

"  Looks  t'  me  like  Kittie  Dusenberry  and 
that  sewing-machine  agent  over  at  the  Corners," 
Mrs.  Clabby  said.  "  They  say  he 's  sweet  on  her. 
For  my  part,  I  'd  ruther  marry  a  fireman  than 
a  sewing-machine  agent.  Then  you  'd  know 
quick  if  they  was  t'  die.  Sewing  machine  agents 
is  always  away  an'  you  never  do  know  what 's 
happenin'  them."  And  she  flicked  the  mince  pie 
crumbs  off  her  crocheted  jabot. 

"  Nor  what  they  're  up  to,"  Mrs.  Archibald 
threw  in,  swallowing  her  bite  of  pie.  "  Bad  's 
sailors  for  flirtin'  with  the  girls.  I  knew  a  girl  as 
married  a  Singer  agent  an'  ef  he  did  n't  have  the 
hull  back  of  his  wagon  full  of — yes,  full — " 

Sarah  Tibbetts  did  n't  see  them  either.  She 
was  knitting  a  new  kind  of  edging  for  white 
petticoats,  with  her  nose  close  to  the  needles. 
And  Mrs.  Egerton  had  her  feet  on  the  fender 
and  a  nubia  round  her  head,  nursing  neuralgia. 
346 


CALENDAR-DAY 


But  Prunella  did.  Prunella  had  been  down  to 
Father  Zujewski's  with  a  plum  pudding.  She 
had  taken  it  down  piping  hot,  just  about  the 
time  she  thought  a  person  would  be  likely  to 
come  to  dessert  in  their  New  Year's  dinner.  Be- 
sides, she  had  preferred  to  go  at  dinner-time.  It 
was  a  safer  hour  for  people  that  were  heroines. 
And  that  was  how  she  happened  to  see  the 
other  heroine.  Just  at  the  town  hall,  when  she 
was  preparing,  with  uplifted  skirt,  to  plunge 
into  the  unbroken  snow,  she  saw  them  jingle 
swiftly  by,  Olivia  in  her  father's  old  sealskin 
cap  with  that  bright  hair  of  hers  flying  and  her 
cheeks  rosy,  just  as  if  she  had  n't  been  going 
through  all  the  strain  of  Mrs.  Ladd's  illness,  and 
Patrick  Joyce,  handsomer  even  than  ever  in  his 
furs,  holding  in  a  lively,  high-stepping  bay. 
They  did  n't  see  Prunella.  They  were  laughing 
and  looking  at  each  other. 

Prunella  floundered  wildly  through  the  drifts 
and  rushed  home.  Miss  Hollins  was  piling  the 
dishes  at  the  sink,  and  thinking  of  other  New 
Years.  On  one  of  them  a  young  minister  had 
called  upon  her  and  written  in  her  autograph 
album.  She  remembered  the  verse  perfectly :  — 

"  In  intercourse  of  mind  with  mind, 
The  highest,  purest  joy  we  find." 
347 


THE  INVADERS 


He  had  written  it  right  off  out  of  his  head. 
And  then  he  had  gone  to  the  Friendly  Islands 
to  spread  the  gospel,  and  never  — 

"  Aunt  Lou,  what  do  you  suppose  I  've  seen  ! 
What  do  you  suppose !  This  village  is  going  just 
crazy."  And  Prunella  slammed  the  door  and 
scattered  snow  all  over  the  kitchen. 

"For  pity's  sake,  Prunella !  What  is  the  mat- 
ter?" Miss  Hollins  cried,  dropping  a  buttered 
knife  right  into  the  glass  suds.  "  Just  see  what 
a  mess  you  're  making." 

"  But  Aunt  Lou  !  Listen  !  I  've  seen  Olivia 
and  Patrick  Joyce  dashing  off  in  a  cutter,  all 
robes  and  fur  coats,  and  looking  so  hard  at  each 
other  that  they  nearly  ran  over  me.  Now,  Aunt 
Lou  !  What  do  you  —  " 

Miss  Hollins  dropped  on  the  nearest  chair. 
"  Thank  God  !  I  knew  it !  I  Ve  been  praying 
for  it.  Prunella,  if  you  dare  to  tell  a  syllable 
to  —to  —  to  —  " 

"  To  whom,  Aunt  Lou  !  To  Mrs.  Clabby,  I 
suppose  you  mean.  Of  course  I  '11  tell  her  right 
away.  And  now  Dacre  '11  be  off  my  mind.  But 
I  shall  write  Stefan,  Aunt  Lou." 

"  Stefan  's  different,  Prunella.  Well,  of  all 
things.  It 's  like  living  in  a  story,  the  way  you 
young  folks  keep  things  busy.  Poor  Dacre  ! 
348 


CALENDAR-DAY 


I  loved  his  mother.  He  looks  —  There  's 
the  bell.  Who  under  the  sun  at  this  time  o' 
day!" 

Prunella  threw  off  her  wraps  and  her  rubbers 
and  went  to  the  door.  There  was  laughter  and 
then  the  closing  door  and  then  a  man's  voice, 
and  in  a  minute  Prunella's  amazed  face  in  the 
pantry  window. 

"  It 's  Mr.  Michael  Joyce,  Aunt  Lou,"  she 
whispered  dramatically.  "  He's  come  to  see  you. 
So,  you  see,  things  are  happening ! " 

Meanwhile,  things  were  happening  out  on 
the  white  fields  under  Mount  Toby,  where  the 
big  bay  carried  the  jingling  cutter  so  swiftly 
over  the  unbroken  roads.  And  yet  the  two  in 
the  cutter  were  not  saying  momentous  things  as 
the  sharp  air  stung  their  cheeks  and  the  snow 
flew  out  from  under  their  runners  and  the  sun 
sparkled  on  the  icy  trees,  and  the  vines  and  fern 
along  the  walls. 

"It  seems  awfully  selfish  to  be  having  all 
this,  and  poor  little  Bride  at  home  shut  up  with 
Mamma,"  Olivia  was  saying,  drawing  in  a  deep 
breath. 

"  But  you  've  had  no  air  in  all  these  long 
weeks.  Not  once  would  y'  go  with  me  till  the 
doctor  got  on  my  side  to-day,  God  bless  him," 
349 


THE   INVADERS 


Joyce  protested.   "And  many  an  outing   has 
Bride  had  since  your  mother 's  better." 

"  And  then  "  —  she  hesitated  —  "  then  to 
have  to  go  secretly  —  without  Mamma's  know- 
ing about  it.  It  does  n't  seem  right.  It  would 
be  more  —  more  honorable  to  stay  right  at 
home  till  Mamma 's  well  enough  to  know  — 
know  of  all  your  adorable  kindness  and  just 
who  Bride  is." 

"  And  let  y'  die  in  the  meanwhile,"  he  cried 
with  a  laugh.  "  Not  much  for  such  honor ! " 
Then  suddenly,  in  quite  a  different  tone,  he 
went  on,  looking  very  carefully  at  the  fine 
spirited  ears  of  the  bay  as  he  talked.  "  Y're 
sayin'  a  lot  about  adorable  kindness,  and  won- 
dering what  y'  can  be  doing  to  return  it.  Faith, 
it 's  no  return  I  want  f 'r  what  is  like  —  like 
life  t'  me.  But  will  y'  "  —  and  he  turned  and 
looked  quite  directly  into  the  eyes  that  turned 
so  frankly  to  his  — "  will  y'  do  something 
f'r  me  just  —  just  because  —  because  we're 
friends,  perhaps,  and  life 's  such  a  sorry  mixup 
anyhow?  " 

She  colored  slowly  even  under  the  rose  of 
the  wind,  as  she  still  let  him  look  quite  di- 
rectly into  her  eyes.   "  Yes,"  she  said.  "  I  will, 
because  —  because  we  are  friends." 
350 


CALENDAR-DAY 


"  Then  it 's  this.  Just  let 's  have  to-day  for 
our  day  to  be  merry  in.  You  see,  in  my  people 
there's  just  this  little  wild  streak  of  —  of  reck- 
lessness. An  Irishman  can  die  with  a  jest  on 
his  lips.  So  to-day  will  y'  just  forget  —  not 
look  behind  and  not  look  before  —  just  at  each 
other  and  to-day?  It  was  what  Deirdre  and 
Naoise  did  —  they  looked  not  to  the  past  or  the 
future."  So  earnestly  had  he  spoken  and  so 
slowly  that  the  bay  was  quite  down  in  the  drifts 
at  the  roadside,  and  it  took  a  quick  pull  'and  a 
call  to  get  him  back  into  the  tracks. 

"  I  will,"  she  said.  "  I  will.  Just  have  a  jolly 
good  time  and  forget  all  the  cares  and  the  an- 
xieties and  the  horrid  things  !  "  "  And  Dacre," 
she  added  to  herself.  It  would  not  be  wrong 
for  six  or  seven  hours  to  forget  him  when  he 
himself  told  in  his  letters  of  the  rides  to  Ver- 
sailles and  Fontainebleau  and  Chantilly  with  the 
models  and  the  artists.  Surely,  on  those  gay 
parties,  Dacre  was  not  thinking  of  her.  And  he 
had  had  no  fearful  four  weeks  of  illness  to  wear 
him  out,  and  there  were  no  cares  and  no  hard 
work  like  her  work  waiting  for  him  in  the  gay 
Quartier. 

"  And,  besides,"  she  went  on,  aloud,  with  a 
laugh,  "  it 's  New  Year's  Day.  We  've  got  to 
351 


THE   INVADERS 


make  a  calendar-day  for  the  year,  have  n't  we  ! 
And  first  will  you  tell  me  all  that  I  did  n't  find 
in  the  encyclopedia  about  your  ring." 

"  I  will,"  he  said.  "  I  will  tell  y'  anything  y' 
ask  me,"  and  he  laughed  and  threw  back  his  head 
until  she  could  not  fail  to  see  what  nice,  strong 
white  teeth  he  had.  "But  y'll  be  disappointed 
when  y'  hear,  if  y're  thinking  't  was  some  girl 
that  gave  it  to  me.  'T  was  my  father's  ring, 
the  ring  my  mother  gave  him  and  she  the 
daughter  of  a  Galway  fisherman.  'T  was  in  the 
Claddagh  she  lived,  and  her  people  were  good, 
but  very  simple  folk.  And  it  was  not  at  all  the 
match  that  my  father's  family  were  making  for 
him,  that  he  should  be  marrying  a  fisherman's 
daughter.  But  my  father  loved  her  and  she 
loved  him,  and  —  and  that  was  all.  Some  day," 

—  he  stopped  and  colored  a  little  and  laughed 

—  "  sometime,  please  God,  I  '11  be  giving  it  to 

—  to  the  girl  that  I  love."  And  again  he  looked 
carefully  and  critically  at  the  spirited  ears  of  the 
high-stepping  bay. 

"  That  is  a  much  nicer  story  than  if  —  if  a 
girl  had  given  it  to  you.  The  modern  stories 
are  n't  half  so  nice  and  romantic  as  the  old 
stories,  do  you  think  so  ?  "  And  she,  too,  looked 
ahead  at  Sugarloaf  with  its  deep  russet  preci- 
352 


CALENDAR-DAY 


pices  powdered   with  snow  in  and  out  of  the 
little  black  cedars. 

"  The  modern  stories  are  quite  the  same  as 
the  old  stories,"  he  said.  "  Faith,  there 's  just 
the  same  joy  in  them,  and  the  same  pain.  And 
our  hearts  are  the  same  in  the  aching.  Only 
to-day  —  to-day  we're  afraid  to  be  speaking 
the  truth  to  each  other." 

"  Suppose  "  —  she  hesitated  —  "  suppose  we 
do  not  know  the  truth." 

He  gave  the  bay  a  sharp  cut  that  sent  the 
snow  flying  up  into  their  faces.  u  We  do  always 
know  the  truth  when  we  love.  That  is  how  we 
know  that  it  is  love  —  because,  faith,  we  know." 

They  were  turning  off  from  the  highway  into 
unbroken  snow,  under  the  low  branches  that 
arched  over  a  mountain  woodroad.  On  the  left, 
a  little  brook  gurgled  and  cascaded  under  the 
ice,  and  on  the  left  snowy  cedars  and  pines 
climbed  up  the  white  slopes  of  Toby.  A  rabbit 
scurried  out  from  under  the  icy  fern  and  leaped 
across  their  way.  Above  them  a  crow  cawed  in 
the  cold  blue  above  the  black  tree-tops. 

"  One  could  forget  here,"  she  said  with  a 
long  breath  out  of  her  far-away  thought. 

"  And  know  the  truth  ?  "  he  questioned,  very 
low. 

363 


THE   INVADERS 


"Some  people,  perhaps,"  she  answered  slowly. 
"  Some  people  who  are  —  are  free.  But  we  — 
we  old  village  families  —  we  are  not  free.  We 
are  born  into  certain  things.  We  can't  get  away 
from  our  fates.  It 's  like  a  —  a  hideous  Greek 
tragedy.  We  've  got  to  do  the  —  the  things  our 
fathers  and  grandfathers  have — have  fooled  us 
into  doing!"  She  spoke  bitterly,  and  he  could 
see  the  shine  of  unshed  tears  in  the  eyes  that 
looked  ahead  up  the  white  winding  of  the  road. 

They  were  rounding  a  curve  into  a  bleak 
clearing  with  its  deserted  woodcutter's  hut  and 
snow-topped  piles  of  yellow  logs. 

Joyce  held  the  lines  tight.  "  Y've  not  to  do 
that,"  he  said  tensely.  "Y've  just  to  choose 
when  y'r  heart  tells  y',  the  way  nothing  can 
keep  y'  apart." 

She  made  no  answer,  and  they  drove  on  in 
the  hush,  with  the  brook's  quiet  voice  following 
them  and  the  light  snow  blowing  off  the  trees. 
She  was  afraid  to  look  at  him.  In  her  Greek 
tragedy,  his  face  against  the  dark  pines  was  like 
that  of  a  white,  stern-lipped  Apollo  defying  the 
Fates. 

Ahead  of  them,  beyond  the  clearing,  a 
blasted  sycamore  stood,  gaunt  and  gray,  at  the 
forking  of  the  roads.  A  little  change  had  come 
354 


CALENDAR-DAY 


over  the  woods.  The  first  delicate  foreboding 
of  night  had  dulled  the  sunshine,  and  the  shad- 
ows lay  level  along  the  snow. 

"  Which  way  do  we  go  ?  "  he  exclaimed,  out 
of  his  long  quiet.  "  Faith,  I  don't  know  the 
right  road  from  the  wrong,  and  not  a  track  is 
there  except  that  deerprint.  Shall  we  trust  to 
your  Fate  that  y're  so  mindful  of,  and  see 
where  she  '11  lead  us.  Sure,  I  don't  much  care. 
Do  you  ?  "  And  he  turned  and  looked  into  her 
eyes  as  he  had  looked  that  day  across  the 
brook. 

"  But,  Mamma  !  "  she  said  quickly,  dropping 
her  eyes.  "  Just  for  her  I  care." 

He  loosened  the  lines  and  leaned  back.  The 
high-stepping  bay  did  not  hesitate  as  to  the  de- 
cision of  fate.  Instinct  guided  him  to  the  left, 
across  the  brook,  into  a  smoother  road  broken 
by  a  wagon  track  or  two,  and  presently  they 
were  jingling  as  merrily  down  hill  as  if  they 
were  no  smallest  part  of  a  Greek  tragedy.  A  cold 
wind  blew  sharp  in  their  faces.  Joyce  turned 
and  pulled  the  robes  up  close  around  her,  and 
stooped  and  gathered  them  well  over  her  feet. 

"  Y're  warm  enough,  sweetheart  ?  "  he  said 
in  a  whisper,  as  if  the  very  woods  might  blast 
him  for  his  daring. 

355 


THE   INVADERS 


u  Oh,  yes,"  she  whispered  back,  with  a  surge 
of  color. 

And  then  they  jingled  down  past  other  clear- 
ings, past  fields  and  farmhouses  into  the  valley 
already  gray  with  the  coming  twilight.  The 
pleasant  smell  of  newly  fed  woodfires  greeted 
them,  and  just  ahead,  at  the  meeting  of  hill- 
road  and  highway,  a  little  inn  showed  cheerful 
early  lights.  The  high-stepping  bay  made  for 
the  lights  and  the  barn  beyond. 

Joyce  drew  a  long  breath.  "  We  '11  stop  here 
fora  bit  of  hot  tea,  if  y'  will,"  he  said.  "  D'  y' 
see  the  firelight  there  in  that  little  front 
parlor  ?  Faith,  I  'm  thinking  the  doctor  him- 
self would  advise  some  tea  there  and  some 
toast." 

And  so  he  parted  the  robes  and  helped  her 
out,  and  she  ran  in  and  stood  shivering  over  the 
fire  while  he  put  the  sleigh  into  the  stable  and 
ordered  the  toast  and  the  tea.  Dreamily  and 
unseeingly  she  looked  around  the  little  room 
with  the  melodeon  and  the  Nottingham  lace 
curtains  and  the  crayon  portraits  and  the  cen- 
tre table  with  the  white  crochet  cover  and  the 
Rogers  group.  And  then  she  sank  down  in  a 
chair  by  the  fire  and  listened  to  her  heartbeats 
throbbing  in  her  ears,  and  wondered  if  Dacre 
356 


CALENDAR-DAY 


had  forgotten  so  long  when  he  went  to  Ver- 
sailles, and  so  —  so  absolutely. 

And  then  Joyce  came  in,  tossing  his  coat  and 
cap  over  a  chair  and  rubbing  his  hands  that 
were  stiff  from  the  driving. 

"  Faith,  y'll  not  be  taking  y'r  tea  in  that 
great  coat  y'  have  on,"  he  said,  almost  gayly, 
helping  her  out  of  it.  "And  I've  ordered  the 
toast  and  the  tea  and  the  marmalade,  just  as  if  it 
were  in  the  old  country  itself.  And  we  '11  pull 
the  table  up  to  the  fire  and  be  as  cosy  as  kings." 

She  caught  his  mood,  and  when  the  tray 
came  in  she  was  very  busy  with  the  tea-things 
while  he  talked  to  the  landlord  about  the  eight 
miles  back  to  Fernfield  and  the  full  moon  that 
would  light  them  and  the  early  coming  of  the 
twilight.  And  the  landlord  was  very  friendly 
and  gave  him  the  exact  time,  just  five-thirty, 
and  brought  in  the  morning  paper  and  a  pitcher 
of  homemade  cider,  and  then  went  out  and  shut 
the  door. 

"  Is  n't  it  fun  !  "  Olivia  said,  gay  in  her  turn, 
but  not  meeting  his  eyes.  "  And  such  bread 
and  butter  !  Lots  better  than  your  toast !  And 
your  tea?  Did  I  pour  it  right?  " 

"  Just  right,"  he  said,  absently  looking  into 
her  eyes. 

357 


THE  INVADERS 


"  I  have  n't  had  a  jolly  afternoon  tea  like 
this,  off  in  a  queer  little  place,  since  —  since 
college,  and  that  seems  years  ago,"  she  went 
on  quickly.  "  We  girls  used  to  tramp  to  all 
sorts  of  queer  little  places  and  have  tea,  and  I 
love  it.  I  wish  Bride  were  here  to  have  some, 
too.  Are  n't  you  going  to  drink  yours  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  said,  "  I  'm  going  to  take 
mine.  An'  y'  remember  y'  asked  me  to  tell  y' 
the  story  of  Deirdre,  that  time  in  the  barn  in 
the  storm  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  I  do  remember.  Could  you  tell  it 
to  me  now,  here  in  this  nice  firelight,  before  we 
go  on  ?  Is  it  too  long  a  story  ?  " 

"  No,  it 's  not  too  long  a  story.  It 's  not 
worth  bringing  a  lamp,  the  time  it  '11  take  in  the 
telling." 

He  drained  his  teacup  and  got  up  and  took 
the  low  chair  at  her  side  on  the  beflowered 
hearth-rug.  "  Y'  see,  I  was  telling  y'  that 
Deirdre  had  been  kept  away  in  the  woods,  in  a  wee 
house,  quite  hidden  from  all  men,  the  way  the 
beauty  and  the  sweetness  of  her  would  be  mak- 
ing no  harm,"  he  went  on  in  his  low  voice  that 
seemed  to  her  to  tremble  a  little.  Her  eyes  she  was 
keeping  on  the  tea-leaves  in  the  bottom  of  her 
cup.  "And  then  a  huntsman  heard  her  singing, 
358 


CALENDAR-DAY 


and  he  told  Conchubar,  the  king,  all  about  her, 
the  way  he  could  not  rest  until  he  had  brought 
her  to  his  court  at  Emain  Macha  and  she  had 
promised  to  marry  him  in  a  year  and  a  day. 
And  Conchubar  got  her  wise  teachers  and  gentle 
companions,  and  every  day  he  was  loving  her 
more  and  counting  the  days  till  she  would  be 
his  wife.  Am  I  tiring  y'  with  the  telling  — 
sweetheart?" 

She  had  put  her  cup  down  and  leaned  her 
chin  in  her  palms  as  she  listened. 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  she  whispered  breathlessly. 

"  Sweetheart !  "  he  murmured  again,  touch- 
ing her  hair  where  the  firelight  touched  it. 

And  then  he  went  on,  with  a  long  breath, 
"  And  one  day  when  Deirdre  and  her  gentle  com- 
panions were  out  in  the  fields  in  the  sunshine, 
she  saw  coming  over  the  hill  towards  them, 
three  men,  and  she  grew  crimson  red  and  she 
said  in  her  heart,  l  Faith,  I  know  him.  The 
beautiful  one  of  these  men  is  Naoise,  and  he 
the  one  I've  been  seeing  in  my  dreams  this 
many  a  day ! '  And  love  came  into  her  heart 
like  lightning,  the  way  she  could  not  but  follow 
him.  And  the  two  brothers  of  Naoise  saw  her 
coming,  and  they  fearing  her  because  she  was  to 
be  the  bride  of  Conchubar,  the  king.  And  they 
359 


THE   INVADERS 


did  not  look  back  and  they  widened  the  distance 
between  them,  and  Deirdre  crying  after  them 
in  the  sweet  voice  of  her,  '  Naoise !  Naoise ! 
Will  y'  be  leaving  me  ? '  And  when  she  had 
cried  the  third  time,  Naoise  heard  and  —  and 
he  stopped  and  turned  back  to  her  —  and  met 
Deirdre  all  breathless  from  the  running  —  and 
looked  deep  into  the  sweet  eyes  of  her  —  and 
they  —  they  kissing  one  another  three  times 
and  —  " 

And  somehow  he  was  on  his  knees  at  her 
side  and  his  arms  were  round  her  and  his  lips 
on  hers,  and  he  was  murmuring,  "  Sure,  it 's 
not  Fate  that  I  'm  fearing —  or  kings  —  sweet- 
heart —  if —  if  y'  love  me !  " 

And  she  did  not  draw  away.  For  that  one 
wild  little  moment  she  did  not  fear  Fate.  Why 
should  she  care  when  this  —  this  was  what  she 
was  born  for?  What  did  anything  matter  — 
now  that  she  knew  ! 

"It's  not  Fate  that  y're  fearing  now,  sweet- 
heart ! "  he  whispered,  looking  deep  into  her 
eyes. 

Somewhere  a  clock  twanged  six. 

She  drew  quickly  away  and  started  up.  "  You 
made  me  —  forget,"  she  said,  pushing  him  back. 
"  The  day 's  done  —  our  calendar-day.  Don't 
360 


CALENDAK-DAY 


you  know  —  about  Dacre  ?  Ever  since  we  were 
children  —  " 

"That's  why!"  he  broke  in  hotly.  "No 
choice  has  been  given  y'.  I  know.  And  so  it 
was  with  Aileen  before  my  heart  cried  out  f'r 

y'" 

She  turned  from  him  and  went  to  the  fire, 
away  from  his  eyes  that  hurt  her  so. 

"  But,  you  see,"  she  said  slowly,  "  there  are 
other — other  things  —  old — old  family  wrongs. 
I  have  no  choice.  You  will  believe  me !  "  She 
turned  again  to  him.  In  the  firelight  he  could 
see  the  trembling  of  her  lips.  "  You  are  so  great 
and  generous,"  she  went  on,  very  low,  and  not 
looking  at  him.  "  I  will  tell  you.  Long  ago,  in 
the  summer,  my  heart  began  to  speak  to  me.  I 
knew  the  truth — that  —  that  I  loved  you.  But 
I  would  not  give  in.  And  now  you  will  be  gen- 
erous. One  cannot  break  vows.  You  will  not 
make  it  too  hard  —  now  that  I  know  ?  " 

"I  will  not,"  he  whispered  hoarsely.  And 
then  he  opened  the  door  and  went  out  to  get 
the  sleigh. 

Presently  the  landlord  came  in  bringing  a 
lamp  under  a  yellow  shade  decorated  with  bril- 
liant purple  grapes,  and  set  it  on  the  centre- 
table  by  the  open  newspaper,  and  made  a  little 
361 


THE  INVADERS 


joke  about  tea 's  being  a  weak  drink  for  New 
Year's  Day.  When  he  had  gone  out  with  the 
tray,  she  sat  down  by  the  table  and  tugged  at 
her  gloves  through  eyes  blinded  with  tears. 
And  when  the  tears  had  been  forced  back,  she 
looked  unseeingly  at  the  paper  there  by  the 
lamp,  with  the  news  of  the  wide  world  in  its 
close-printed  sheets. 

And  then  out  of  the  close  print  and  into  her 
pain  there  burned  a  big  headline  over  several 
smaller  lines.  She  had  read  it  twice  before  it 
meant  anything  to  her,  the  news  that  said  :  — 

AMERICAN  ARTIST  KILLED  IN 
AUTOMOBILE  ACCIDENT 

CANNES,  FRANCE.  Dec.  31, 19  — .  "While 
speeding  on  the  Grande  Corniche  Road  — 
between  Eze  and  Roccabruna,  an  automo- 
bile belonging  to  Alexis  Orloff,  a  Russian 
artist  now  living  in  Paris,  dashed  over  a 
precipice  into  a  gorge  two  hundred  feet 
below.  The  others  in  the  party  were  Dacre 
Welling,  an  American  artist,  about  whom 
nothing  is  known,  and  two  women,  names 
unknown.  All  were  instantly  killed. 

When  she  looked  up,  Joyce  stood  in  the  door- 
way in  his  fur  coat.  He  was  very  white. 

She  pointed  to  the  paper.    "  Do  you  see  — 
362 


CALENDAR-DAY 


do  you  see  — "  she  said  thickly,  "what  has 
been  happening  while  —  while  I  have  forgot- 
ten?" 

He  grew  crimson  as  he  read. 

All  the  way  home  in  the  cold  moonlight,  she 
sat  silent,  far  from  him,  in  the  sleigh. 


CHAPTEK  XXVIH 
"LET'S  MAKE  IT  A  HOLIDAY!" 

A  HEAVY  yellow  bee  buzzed  just  outside  the 
window,  but  By  did  not  look  up  from  "  Mother 
Tongue,  Part  II." 

"  A  noun  is  the  name  of  a  person,  place  or 
thing;  like  John,  Boston,  kite,"  he  murmured 
again  and  again.  How  could  a  fellow  mind  bees 
or  hornets  or  anything  when  the  examinations 
were  next  week  and  Miss  Ladd  sat  at  the  desk 
not  watching !  A  great  truster  Miss  Ladd  was  ! 
Now  she  was  sitting  with  her  chin  propped  in 
her  palm  and  her  eyes  away  out  of  the  window 
on  the  left  side  of  the  picture  of  President 
Lincoln.  If  she  had  been  a  watcher,  or  had  not 
been  Miss  Ladd,  and  he  had  not  had  certain 
transactions  and  conversations  with  Mr.  Patrick 
Joyce  before  he  and  his  sister  went  away  on 
their  trip,  why,  then,  he  might  have  found  in- 
teresting possibilities  in  that  bee  so  near  Basia 
Komanski's  sleek  yellow  head. 

Across  the  room,  Apollonia,  with  close-shut 
eyes  and  moving  lips,  was  saying  Presidents  on 
364 


her  fingers,  and  behind  her,  Stefanya  carefully 
moved  her  stubby  finger  down  the  columns  of 
her  spelling-book.  So  soundless  was  the  room, 
and  yet  so  vividly  alive  and  so  receptive  every 
child,  from  big  Roman  Krasinska  down  to  smil- 
ing little  Marinska,  that  they  seemed  only  part 
of  the  growing  world  outside,  absorbing,  breath- 
ing in,  taking  root,  blossoming. 

Olivia,  languidly  present  at  the  desk,  won- 
dered how  the  sturdy  little  things  could  work 
in  such  heat.  The  last  weeks  of  May  had  been 
like  July,  and  now  this  first  week  in  June  —  the 
last  school  week  —  was  like  August.  It  was  hard 
on  her  and  the  children,  but  glorious  for  the  crops. 
And  it  was  of  her  crops  that  she  was  thinking, 
with  unmanageable  little  breaks,  as  she  looked 
out  beyond  Lincoln  at  the  new  pale  green  of 
the  onion  fields.  Things  were  promising  beyond 
her  wildest  dreams,  the  tobacco  deal  with  Tony 
Wyzocki  the  most  promising  of  all.  Ten  acres  of 
her  rich  river  bottom  already  set  with  husky 
young  plants  and  half  of  the  proceeds  hers !  That 
looked  like  being  ready  to  pay  off  the  mortgage 
that  was  due  in  three  weeks !  And  then  came 
the  break  in  her  agricultural  calculations.  The 
mortgage  —  the  dear  Joyces  !  And,  surely,  soon 
Patrick  and  Bride  would  be  back  from  their 
365 


THE   INVADERS 


long  sight-seeing  in  the  South  and  West.  The 
picture  postcards  of  cowboys  and  old  missions 
and  the  Golden  Horn  and  Chinatown  and  the 
Grand  Canyon  all  said  that  they  would  soon  be 
coming  home.  And  surely  no  one  could  be 
kinder  and  dearer  than  Mr.  Michael  Joyce  since 
they  left,  and  no  one  more  delicate.  Even  her 
mother  knew  now  of  all  the  fraud  that  had  been 
practised  upon  her  during  the  winter,  and 
laughed  about  it,  and  adored  Bride,  although 
she  always  finished  her  admissions  and  eased 
her  pride  with,  "  But  then  there  are  Irish  and 
Irish  !  And  the  Joyces  are  really  French !  They 
came  from  France  to  Galway  in  the  time  of 
Elizabeth  and  the  name  was  Norman  and  was 
spelt  'Joyes/  So  they  are  very  different, 
Olivia." 

Surely,  after  all  the  kindness  that  was  more 
like  blessedness,  surely,  it  was  fortunate  that 
she  could  pay  off  the  mortgage  and  not  have 
them  feel  any  longer  the  drain  on  their  good- 
ness. And  then  —  and  then  when  Patrick  came 
home !  There  her  thought  grew  hot  and  in- 
coherent. What  would  happen  when  Patrick 
came  home  ?  By,  watching  through  the  clasped 
fingers  that  propped  his  head,  saw  the  swift 
color  flood  her  neck  and  face.  What  would  hap- 
366 


LET'S   MAKE  IT  A  HOLIDAY 

pen  when  Patrick  came  home,  now  that  the  old 
vow  was  canceled  in  that  lonely  grave  by  the 
Mediterranean. 

But  about  the  crops  !  She  drew  a  long  breath, 
and  sat  up,  and  remembered  the  young  cucum- 
bers and  melons  and  tomatoes  and  eggplants 
now  coming  out  of  the  hot-beds  that  she  and 
Timothy  had  struggled  over  so  valiantly  and 
untiringly  during  the  black  weeks  after  New 
Year's.  Oh,  the  darling,  darling  home  fields ! 
How  they  were  smiling  and  giving  back  to  her 
the  love  she  put  into  them !  And  her  mother,  in 
the  invalid  chair  that  Timothy  proudly  pushed 
up  and  down  among  the  beets  and  cabbages  and 
lettuce  and  peas  and  beans  and  eggplants,  and 
over  to  the  edge  of  the  fields  where,  after  the 
abundant  turnip  crop,  Dinny  and  Jerry  had  put 
in  the  corn,  or  after  the  winter  rye,  had  seeded 
down  the  clover,  and  even  to  the  tobacco  fields 
where  Tony  Wyzocki  and  his  wife  and  his 
mother  and  her  mother  and  her  mother's  sister 
and  a  flock  of  children  were  weeding  and  hoe- 
ing and  tending  the  young  plants !  What  a  tri- 
umphant moment  it  was  when  Mrs.  Ladd,  on 
her  return,  after  drinking  her  port  wine  that 
had  come  with  the  compliments  of  Mr.  Michael 
Joyce,  said,  quite  complacently,  "  I  've  been 
367 


THE   INVADERS 


around  a  little,  Olivia,  Timothy  and  I.  It 's  quite 
a  miracle,  is  n't  it,  Timothy  ?  " 

Timothy  took  off  his  cap  and  scratched  his 
gray  poll.  "  Begorra,  Miss,  if  the  angels  an* 
saints  thimselves  had  druv  the  ploughs  and  scat- 
tered the  sade  and  fanned  away  the  bunds  with 
the  white  wings  of  thim,  no  more  beautiful  a 
sight  would  it  be  ! "  he  said  fervently. 

"You,  Olivia,"  Mrs.  Ladd  went  on  with  a 
satisfied  smile,  "you  have  inherited  the  best 
traits  of  —  of  your  ancestors.  And  next  year, 
we  —  we  might  try  onions." 

Next  year!  When  Patrick  was  there!  And 
again  Olivia's  vegetable  hopes  drifted  into 
dreams. 

And  then,  just  as  she  recalled  herself  and 
looked  at  the  clock  and  saw  that  it  was  eleven 
and  time  for  the  Third  Class  in  Reading,  some- 
thing else  came  into  the  window  where  the 
bumblebee  had  buzzed.  This  time  By  looked 
up  and  out  and  pricked  up  his  nice  big  ears. 
Then  he  looked  at  Miss  Ladd.  Had  she  heard 
it,  standing  there  with  her  hand  pressed  close 
over  her  crisp  white  waist  just  where  her  jaunty 
blue  four-in-hand  tie  ended,  and  with  the  color 
flaming  in  her  cheeks?  Apollonia  had.  She 
looked  at  By  and  he  smiled  and  then  she  looked 
368 


LET'S  MAKE  IT  A  HOLIDAY 

at  Miss  Ladd.  Again  it  came,  not  a  buzz  at  all, 
but  a  wild,  shrill,  beloved  shriek,  nearer,  nearer, 
nearer,  round  the  curve,  up  to  the  very  school 
yard.  By  could  see  the  whole  thing.  He  had 
sprung  up  and  leaned  out  of  the  window,  and 
no  one  had  called  for  order.  And  Apollonia 
was  dancing  up  and  down,  and  every  other  child 
was  on  tiptoe  and  smiling  and  whispering. 

"Hello ! "  yelled  By  out  of  the  window. 

"  Hello  ! "  called  back  a  voice  from  the  ma- 
chine. 

Miss  Ladd  had  sat  down,  very  white  and  limp. 
Apollonia  came  and  stood  close  by  her.  And  then 
in  a  flash  there  happened  something  that  is  not 
part  of  the  daily  programme  of  district  schools. 

A  school  visitor  sprang  into  the  room  and 
called  merrily,  "  Hello  !  "  to  the  amazed  child- 
ren. Then  he  took  the  teacher  into  his  arms 
and  kissed  her  slowly  right  on  the  lips,  and 
looked  into  her  eyes  and  said,  "  Faith,  sweet- 
heart, let 's  make  it  a  holiday  !  " 

The  school  cheered.  Usually  they  did  not 
care  for  holidays.  And  then  little  Nicholas 
Brogodzd  stole  out  from  the  ranks  and  caught 
the  visitor's  other  hand,  the  one  that  was  not 
around  the  teacher's  waist,  and  the  visitor  clasped 
it  tight  and  said  gayly,  — 
369 


THE   INVADERS 


"  So  it 's  a  holiday,  boys  and  girls.  And  sure, 
if  y'd  like  a  lift  to  town  in  the  back  of  the  ma- 
chine, it 's  welcome  y*  are !  " 

And  presently  they  were  packed  in  tight, 
dinner-pails,  books,  and  all,  and  Miss  Ladd,  with 
a  little  color  come  back  into  her  cheeks  and 
Nicholas  Brogodzd  on  her  lap,  was  on  the  seat 
next  the  driver,  and  she  was  laughing  and  ask- 
ing him  questions,  and  he  almost  running  over 
Mr.  Krakinski's  pigs  for  looking  at  her.  And 
no  stop  did  they  make  this  trip  at  Fernfield 
Four  Corners.  You  see,  it  was  mail-time  and 
there  were  letters  to  come  even  if  no  one  wanted 
to  be  bothered  reading  them.  So  they  whirled 
by  the  watering-trough  and  on  and  on  past  the 
town  hall  and  the  meeting-house  and  Mrs. 
Clabby's  and  Mrs.  Archibald's  and  Mrs.  Egerton's 
and  Sarah  Tibbetts's,  right  up  to  the  post-office. 

And  there  stood  Bride  waiting  to  kiss  Olivia 
and  greet  all  the  children.  And  on  the  porch 
Dr.  Britton  and  Father  Zujewski  were  opening 
their  mail,  but  they  shut  their  pen-knives  and 
came  down  to  the  machine  to  see  the  district 
school  that  seemed  to  be  running  away,  and  to 
greet  the  far-traveled  Mr.  Joyce.  And  then  Pru- 
nella heard  and  rushed  out  to  see  what  in  the 
world  the  commotion  was  about,  and  stood 
370 


LET'S   MAKE  IT  A  HOLIDAY 

stock-still  and  gasped,  and  then  ran  down  to  the 
car  with  two  big,  thick,  foreign-looking  letters 
open  in  her  hand.  And  she  shook  hands  with 
Mr.  Joyce  as  if  he  had  been  her  foster  brother 
and  was  so  glad  to  see  him  back,  and  then  she 
leaned  into  the  car  and  kissed  Olivia  and  said :  — 

"  Oh,  Olivia !  Are  n't  you  glad  you  're  through 
school !  I  am.  And  have  you  heard  about  Stefan 
Posadowski  ?  He 's  played  before  the  Czar,  and 
His  Majesty  is  crazy  about  him.  I  have  n't  read 
any  further  than  that,  but  I  just  know  some- 
thing grand  is  going  to  happen." 

And  then  Olivia  said  that  she  was  n't  quite 
through  school,  and  how  glad  she  was,  and  she 
begged  Bride  to  come,  too,  on  the  ride,  but 
Bride  was  going  right  down  to  see  Miss  Hollins 
with  Uncle  Mike.  And  while  they  all  chattered, 
and  Mrs.  Clabby  came  panting  up  to  see  what 
under  the  canopy  all  the  screeching  was  about, 
the  school  in  the  back  of  the  car  was  dismissed, 
and  the  self-starting  Pierce  Arrow  glided  off 
down  the  shady  street,  and  Patrick's  arm  went 
around  Olivia's  waist  and  her  eyes  to  his,  and 
off  they  sped  to  the  far  hills  that  looked  like 
heaven  in  the  new  light. 

THE  END 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U   .   S    .   A 


CHRISTOPHER 


By  Richard  Pryce 


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—  London  Punch. 

"  Full  of  quality,  leisure,  and  the  possibility  of  keen 
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"  A  brilliant  piece  of  work,  full  of  ripeness  and  an 
understanding  of  the  richness  of  life."  — N.  Y.  Even- 
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